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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24597121">are you bored yet?</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/crowdyke/pseuds/crowdyke'>crowdyke</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toucanna/pseuds/Toucanna'>Toucanna</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Killing Eve (TV 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, Forced Cohabitation, Forced Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, NOOOOT CUUUUUUUUBAAAAAA, Pre Season 4, Slow Burn, Vacation, post 3x08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 07:21:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>45,556</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24597121</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/crowdyke/pseuds/crowdyke, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toucanna/pseuds/Toucanna</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>They stare at each other for a long time.</i>
</p><p>Thirty seconds after the Season 3 finale, Eve and Villanelle answer the question "Where do we go from here?"</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>81</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>523</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. very berry swirly whirly surprise</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Ayo it's anna and isabella!! buckle up, fuckers, it's s4 speculation time, and this is a multichapter we have actually planned out and thought about too. i swear to god we'll update. Expect one every sunday. just pretend we're actually s4 bc this shit is about to be so good you'll wish it was. </p><p>anyway, enjoy, it's a slow burn. we're not sorry about it.</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>So it begins.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>...Thirty seconds later...</em>
</p><p> </p><p>They stare at each other for a long time. </p><p>So long, that Eve thinks she has had enough time to memorize every facet of Villanelle’s face twice. The dip of her cupid’s bow. The small moles decorating her eye. The wisps of blonde hair flying out of her loose bun, threatening to blow away in the powerful gust of the Tower Bridge wind. She wants to move forward, tuck it behind her ear, hold her cheek like she did on that night in her and Niko’s house, not-so-very-long ago. </p><p>Villanelle is staring back at her. The once cat-like glimmer of her hazel eyes has faded into something more resigned. She remembers the first time she saw them in the bathroom of the hospital. Empty and vacant. Focused. Ready for the kill. How she’d filed them away in her mind for future reference. At the time, she didn’t know why she’d need to remember the gaze of an attractive blonde woman who said less than one sentence to her in a bathroom mirror, but she figured she might as well. Good intuition, Eve thinks. They’re both so different now. </p><p>Now, Villanelle’s body quakes with emotion. Her feelings are earthquakes, and they are <em> loud. </em>And maybe that’s what Villanelle had brought to her very quiet life. Beautiful noise.</p><p>The sadness, the pain, the exhaustion crash across her visage, like waves against the Nantucket shoreline where her family used to vacation. At night, she would lie, unable to sleep, listening to their roar, tossing and turning in the sticky summer air. The memory is so vivid that even in the ferocious wind, she fights the urge to strip down to her underwear, naked as she was then. </p><p>But, she figures, this is naked enough. There is no more denial between them. Her soul is laid bare, free for the taking, and she finds herself wanting Villanelle to take it. </p><p>And now, they’ve both turned around, and Eve doesn’t know where they go from here. Maybe tomorrow, they’ll be aboard a plane to Alaska, bound to their remote cabin in the woods. Maybe, next month, they’ll take a cruise ship around the world. Maybe next year, they’ll settle down in a suburb of New Haven, only a few blocks away from the streets she walked as a little girl. All she knows is they’ll be together. They need to be together. </p><p>She takes a step forward, aware she is sealing her fate, and raises her voice over the ferocious winds and speeding cars. </p><p>“Want to get coffee?” </p><p>Villanelle blinks, stepping forward as well. “What?” she shouts back. </p><p>Eve forces her voice louder. “WANT TO GET COFFEE?” She’s practically screaming at this point, but she doesn’t care. All she can see is that face, moving closer and closer until they are no more than a foot apart. Villanelle can’t meet Eve’s gaze. Her eyes fall down to her shoes, almost as if she’s embarrassed, an emotion Eve isn’t expecting. </p><p>“Are you asking me for coffee?” She asks softly. A bright smile plays on her lips, stark contrast to the conflicted frown from before.</p><p>Eve swallows. “Yes. I am.” She pauses, unsure of Villanelle’s expression. “Is that okay?”</p><p>Villanelle appears lost in thought. The emotions rolling off of her are louder than ever, clashing and fighting across her face, until finally settling into a grin that almost meets her eyes. </p><p>“I’d love to. Where are we headed?” </p><p>“Oh, uh,” Eve fumbles then awkwardly points past Villanelle’s head. “There’s a disgusting diner down that way if you’re up for it.”</p><p>She steps aside, leaving room for Eve to slip past her. “Lead the way, Mrs. Polastri.”</p><p>Eve snorts and begins walking. “Don’t call me that.” </p><p>Villanelle matches her pace. “Okay…” She leans down so her breath is tickling Eve’s ear. “Mrs. Polastri.”</p><p>It’s unfortunate that she has to endure such torture. It’s absurd that it’s by choice. </p><p>“Let’s go.”</p><p>---</p><p>Eve and Villanelle are sitting across from one another in a booth, tucked into the corner of a tiny diner not far from Bitter Pill. The air is filled with the thick aroma of grease and the clink and clatter of ceramic. Eve stares at her folded hands and Villanelle plays with the splenda packets in awkward silence. </p><p>Finally, a waitress appears—a tall young woman with exhaustion settling into her spine. </p><p>“Can I get you ladies anything? Any juice, coffee, tea?” She asks, poised with her pen and pad at the ready. Eve startles, then turns.</p><p>“I’ll have a black coffee,” She says gratefully through a tight-lipped smile. </p><p>Villanelle blinks, clearly in deep thought. “Can I just order the food now?”</p><p>The waitress shrugs in agreement. Villanelle picks up the laminated menu, flipping through the options. </p><p>“I’ll do the pancakes. Hm—well—no, an omelette. Wait, how is your french toast?” She scans rapidly, rattling off more menu items. “An order of french fries, bacon, an egg sunny side up—and uh, hell, bangers and mash. And a…” She peers closer at the page. “A Very Berry Swirly Whirly Surprise.” Closing the menu with a syrup-sweet smile, Villanelle nods. “Yes. I will have all of that.” Looking rather irritated, the waitress asks her to repeat everything one more time before making a beeline to the kitchen. </p><p>Eve looks at her incredulously when the server has gone. “Surprise? What’s the surprise?”</p><p>“I do not know. That is why I ordered it,” She grins. “I’m fun like that, Eve.”</p><p>“It’s midnight. How are you going to eat all of that?” Eve asks, ever the pebble in her shoe.</p><p>“Did you know every sentence out of your mouth is almost always a question?” She leans back in the booth, putting on her best Eve impression. “Who is that? What are you doing? What do you eat for breakfast? Did you kill that guy?” Leaning forward again, her voice drops an octave. “It’s all very boring. I am hungry. I have had a very long day,” Villanelle shrugs. “<em> We </em> have had a very long day.” She lingers on the <em> we, </em>stressing this newfound togetherness, this state of being that allows them to sit and share a meal together. Eve averts her eyes. There’s a beat. </p><p>“Didn’t think Carolyn had it in her,” Eve mutters, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. Villanelle, who was taking a sip of ice water from the diner-plastic cup, chokes. </p><p>“You know? I have a new respect for Carolyn,” Villanelle recovers and smiles, easing into the conversation. “That ugly man got what he deserved.” Eve visibly relaxes, which is shocking, considering that they are discussing the murder of a man so recently deceased that his body was likely still warming the couch. </p><p>“Did you know him?” Eve laughs through her question, finding herself suddenly doubled over with the surreality of the evening. </p><p>“Never seen him a day in my life,” Villanelle smiles along with Eve, revelling in the warmth they have haphazardly fallen into together. </p><p>Eve scoffs, and the conversation lulls. She pulls out her phone:  zero texts, zero missed calls. The only notification is an email from her wine subscription box company asking her to confirm this month’s order. There is no one looking for her, no one waiting for her to come home. </p><p>In a moment, Eve is forced to reckon with her future— who she will be, and who will be part of it. She glances up at Villanelle, who has torn open a sugar packet and is carefully spilling it out onto the table in the shape of a flower. Eve smiles, gently, to herself, and cancels the order. </p><p>The server appears, heavily laden with steaming plates of diner food—from pancakes piled three high to the still-sizzling bacon—in addition to a large glass filled with some unnaturally pink sludge. </p><p>“The Very Berry Swirly Whirly Surprise!” Villanelle whistles appreciatively as the waitress sets the single mug of black coffee in front of Eve, who clasps it gratefully. </p><p>Villanelle immediately begins shoveling food into her mouth, rotating evenly amongst all the dishes as though she is sampling fine cuisine rather than midnight greasy diner food. Eve looks on in some degree of awe. </p><p>“What is it?” She inquires, poking at it with a straw. </p><p>“It appears to be some sort of milkshake,” Villanelle puffs her cheeks out before drawing in a huge gulp of the magenta liquid. While she looks away, Eve nicks a piece of bacon and stuffs it into her mouth. Villanelle pretends not to notice. </p><p>“So. Eve. How have you been?” Villanelle asks, poking another bite of omelette into her mouth. “We have not had the chance to catch up.” </p><p>Eve quickly swallows the bacon. She pauses, letting the strangeness of this moment sink in. That moment is all it takes for a biting anger to grip her body, concentrating itself specifically where Villanelle’s bullet tore through her shoulder. Eve clenches her jaw, fuming with all the pain of the past several months that she hasn’t <em> exactly </em> processed (at least, according to the MI6 therapist she was mandated to see). She looks away.</p><p>Villanelle senses the shift in energy, and her brow knits in confusion. “Did I say something wrong?” </p><p>Eve grits her teeth. “No,” She says, taking a long sip of coffee. “Well, yes.” She leans back, crossing her arms, and meets Villanelle dead in the eyes. </p><p>“After everything that’s happened, all you can ask me is ‘how have you been?’” Eve snaps, her nails digging into her arms. Villanelle smirks slightly, not sensing the gravity of Eve’s anger, then says, </p><p>“Eve, again with the questions—”</p><p>“NO. No, you don’t get to do this. You—” Eve drops her voice, hushing herself—“You <em> shot </em> me, Villanelle. I was in the hospital for a <em> week. </em>I was in PT for three months. It’s not a fucking joke.” She angrily snatches Villenelle’s Very Berry Surprise from her hands and takes an angry draw from it. The blonde is so surprised by both the outburst and the theft that in return she steals Eve’s coffee, taking it hostage amongst her plates of food. The action startles Eve enough that the furious storm cloud on her face breaks for just a moment. </p><p>“Well,” Villanelle says, grimacing as she smacks the taste of burned coffee from her lips, “You also stabbed me.” She raises her eyebrows in an accusatory fashion. </p><p>Eve is taken aback by the reminder of the blood on her hands. Villanelle, Raymond, Dasha. She may as well include Niko’s name on the list—he was her fault, too. Hugo, bleeding out on the floor. So much violence. All of it her own. Eve meets Villanelle’s eyes, reluctantly, before chuckling under her breath. </p><p>Villanelle snorts nervously, unsure of where this was going. Eve’s laugh rises in her chest, bubbling out louder and louder until even the server in the corner turns her head. </p><p>Eve is in full hysterics, wiping tears from her eyes as she rocks back and forth. Villanelle watches the manic woman seated across from her in apprehensive interest. She scoots closer to the table, dramatically raising a hand to her mouth in a loud whisper. </p><p>“<em> Eve. </em>Shh. We’re probably being watched. You can’t draw attention to us like this.”</p><p>Eve grips the edge of the booth, still unable to gain control. She hasn’t laughed this hard since Bill died, and now she can’t stop. It feels good to laugh. Freeing. </p><p>“I’m sorry,” Eve huffs in between fits of giggles. “I just am now realizing how ridiculous,” she gestures toward Villanelle, “This all is.” </p><p>Villanelle regards her carefully. “How so?” </p><p>“I mean for one, you’re an international assassin. Two, I’m assuming I’m now on the run from a global crime syndicate. Three, my unhinged ex-boss just murdered a man in front of us. And we are just sitting here at a diner. Chatting!” She guffaws again and doubles over. “Chatting! Ha!” </p><p>A coffee pot shoved in front of both their faces interrupts her hysterical meltdown. The waitress peers warily over the lid. “Refill?” </p><p>Eve swipes the last of the tears rolling down her cheeks on her sleeve. “That’d be fantastic. Thank you.” She nods her head at Villanelle, who still holds the cup hostage. </p><p>Villanelle pushes it toward the waitress, still perplexed by Eve’s outburst. The waitress slowly fills the mug while watching the two of them with interest. When it’s full, she steps back. “Can I get you ladies anything else?” </p><p>Eve shakes her head, and Villanelle responds with a large smile that reminds her of a shark. Several plates still laden with food blanket the table, but at least the pancakes have been polished off. </p><p>“Just the check, please!” She croons in a thick Scottish accent. </p><p>The waitress stares at the pile of uneaten meals, racking her brain to remember if she’d been Scottish when they ordered. “Do you need any doggie--” </p><p>“Nope. We’re good. Check! Chop chop!” </p><p>“O-okay.” The young woman skitters off to the automated cash register and starts rapidly pressing buttons as sweat beads on her forehead. </p><p>Villanelle sits back in the booth, satisfied with the chaos she has caused. Eve rolls her eyes. “Was that necessary?”</p><p>“I like to sample the local cuisine.”</p><p>“And scare the locals?”</p><p>“That too.”</p><p>Eve steals a handful of fries. </p><p>“I thought you said you weren’t hungry,” Villanelle says dryly, raising one eyebrow. </p><p>“I’m not.” Eve shovels another bundle into her mouth. </p><p>“Just like you’re not into women—not like that.” Villanelle does a bad Eve impression, running her hands through her hair for emphasis.</p><p>Eve is drawing a blank, and Villanelle is looking at her like she should understand the joke.</p><p>She throws her hands in the air. “You know! Berlin! The hotel room with your friend, Bob.”</p><p>“Bill,” Eve corrects, knowing she said the wrong name on purpose. “But how did you—” </p><p>“It’s not important.”</p><p>Just as Eve opens her mouth to ask another question about Villanelle bugging her hotel room and, perhaps, many other hotel rooms in addition to that one, the waitress appears with the check. She plops it down on the only free space amongst the mostly uneaten feast then turns to tend to other diner patrons.</p><p>Eve and Villanelle reach for the check simultaneously, her hand landing on top of Eve’s. There’s a pause as they meet each other’s eyes. Villanelle moves her thumb once over the older woman’s before she snatches the check away.</p><p>She reaches into the pocket of her ridiculously huge yellow coat, and Eve is briefly overcome with the fantasy of Villanelle playing Big Bird on Sesame street. She’s interrupted from deciding if Konstantin or Carolyn would be Oscar the Grouch when Villanelle groans. </p><p>“I forgot.”</p><p>Eve eats another fry while Villanelle looks at her pointedly. “Forgot what?”</p><p>She sighs. “I have no money.”</p><p>“You?” She scoffs. “You have no money.” Giving her designer clothes the quick up and down, Eve repeats, “You. You?”</p><p>“<em>No. </em>I have money. Just not here.” She sticks her nose up. Eve waits for her moment to play out. </p><p>Finally, Villanelle sighs. “It’s in Barcelona. In my beautiful apartment. You’d love it. Great water pressure.”</p><p>“I can pay then. You’re so dramatic, Jesus Christ.” Eve reaches for the check, but Villanelle pulls it out of her reach again. </p><p>She shakes her head. “No, Eve. You don’t understand. All of my money is in Barcelona. All of it. We’re not going anywhere without it.” Villanelle’s eyes are imploring Eve for something, but she’s not quite sure of what she’s getting at yet. </p><p>“Who said I was going anywhere with you?” It’s Eve’s turn to be cheeky, and she relishes in the opportunity. </p><p>Villanelle tosses the check in Eve’s direction, playfully irritated. “If you want to go anywhere, we’ll need to go to Barcelona.” She pauses. “Or I could go by myself.” Villanelle bites her lip to keep from smirking, hoping to pull a reaction from Eve.</p><p>Eve practically jumps out of her seat. “No! You can’t go by yourself. That would be…” She trails off, unsure of where she was headed. She sighs, realizing she has to admit defeat. If this is ever going to work, they’re going to have to start being honest with one another. All cards on the table.</p><p>“I’d like to come with you, if that’s okay.”</p><p>Villanelle smiles, and it’s genuine. “Okay good.” She claps her hands together. “Barcelona in the morning! Where are we headed next?” </p><p>Eve frowns. “Well, I figured I’d go back to Jamie’s, and we’d meet up around 9 tomorrow?” </p><p>“Eve,” Villanelle deadpans, “I have no money.” </p><p>“Oh, right. Um. One second.” She whips out her phone to somehow craft a message to Jamie that both makes sense and would yield a positive result. </p><p>Eve, 12:46 am: <em> Hey Jamie, this is going to sound insane, but Villanelle needs a place to stay, and I was wondering if she could take the other bunk? It would only be for a night. I swear.  </em></p><p>The three dots appear almost instantly. </p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Jamie, 12:46 am: <em>  Should I ask?  </em></p>
  <p>Eve, 12:47 am: <em> Probably not.  </em></p>
  <p>Jamie, 12:47 am: <em> Alright... fuck it. Bring her on over.  </em></p>
  <p>Jamie, 12:47 am: <em> Just one night.  </em></p>
  <p>Eve, 12:47 am: <em> Thank you so much. See you in a bit. </em></p>
</blockquote><p>He only likes the message in response, and Eve feels that conversation went better than expected. When she looks back up, she sees Villanelle sitting in a contorted position on the chair like a child left alone for too long. </p><p>She stares at the ceiling. “Don’t you like…” Her back is completely flat on the seat now, and her legs stick out into the aisle. She twirls a forkful of french french toast, sausage, mashed potato, and egg in the air. “Have an apartment I broke into?” </p><p>Eve shakes her head, fighting a snort at Villanelle’s attempt to shove the giant fork into her mouth. “I lost it.” She shrugs. “London.”</p><p>“Mm,” Villanelle muses. “I wouldn’t know.” She sits up, nearly knocking over the plate of mashed potatoes. “Then where are we going?” </p><p>Eve fishes through her wallet for a wad of bills, making sure to tip generously. Placing them gently on top of the check, she glances at Villanelle as she double checks the amount. “One of my Bitter Pill colleagues lets me stay with him.”</p><p>“Is it the big one, with the beard? He’s got good gummies. I like him. Easy to scare.”</p><p>“No the other one. Also with a beard. Jamie.”</p><p>“Jamie,” Villanelle repeats and lets the name roll off her tongue. “Boss man.”</p><p>Eve’s lip quirks up. “Boss man.” She rises to her feet, giving the waitress a small nod, and heads toward the exit. Villanelle watches her from the booth. </p><p>Eve turns, dark hair bouncing over her shoulders, “Are you coming?” Eve watches Villanelle watch her, both women acutely aware of the other’s gaze. Eve, in her practical parka, hands tucked into pockets. Villanelle, the brightest thing in the room. Villanelle has already answered the question; they both answered it, the moment they turned around on the bridge. </p><p>Of course she's coming. </p><p>---</p><p>Jamie opens the door, staring at them with a strange combination of fascination and disgust. </p><p>Eve forgets how to move her limbs when Villanelle is standing near her, so she offers a small smile. Villanelle pokes out from behind her, waving. </p><p>“Morning,” Jamie grumbles, turning to let them in. </p><p>“Morning!” Villanelle responds, perhaps too enthusiastically</p><p>Eve only manages a halfhearted chuckle as they squeeze past him. Villanelle, it seems, has no manners in anybody’s home because she begins to touch every item Jamie owns, turning over books, coasters, moving trinkets and shifting chairs. Jamie watches in morbid disbelief for a moment before reaching his arm behind his head with a sigh.</p><p>“Bathroom’s down the hall,” He says to no one in particular. “I’m going to bed.” He turns with another grumble and ascends the staircase next to them without a second glance.</p><p>Villanelle shows herself to the guest room, Eve tagging behind, too exhausted to lead. </p><p>The weight of the past several days weighs heavily on her shoulders, finally having caught up with her. Next to the bed, she sheds her coat, leaving it to it lay where it falls. She digs a set of pajamas from the duffel under the bed, then meets Villanelle’s eyes. </p><p>“I won’t look,” The blonde says softly, turning around. “I have to change too, anyway.” Villanelle is true to her word, finding her way to the bathroom, leaving Eve to strip in peace. By the time she’s in her PJs, Villanelle returns. Her hair has a ponytail bump from being in a bun all day, and she’s wearing whatever was under that yellow overcoat—a soft white t-shirt and comfortable pair of leggings. It’s the most dressed-down Eve has ever seen her, and strangely, it makes her vulnerable. Villanelle drops her gaze.</p><p>“So, uh,” She clears her throat, “Top or bottom?” </p><p>Eve blinks. </p><p>“The bunk beds,” Villanelle adds helpfully. </p><p>“Oh,” Eve stares at the beds, feeling as if this question has more weight to it than she is currently able to process. “Well, I’ve been sleeping on the bottom so…”</p><p>“Then I’ll take the t—” </p><p>“No!” Eve springs forward, standing protectively in front of the ladder. “I can take the top. The bottom is more comfortable anyway.”</p><p>Villanelle bats her eyelashes. “How romantic.” </p><p>“Shut up.” She’s already halfway up the ladder, and, after the amount of running she’s done today, she’s out of breath by the time she heaves herself onto the top bunk’s race car sheets. </p><p>Villanelle jumps into the lower bunk, staring at the bars holding Eve’s mattress above her body. Eve thinks about how she can feel the blonde’s eyes boring holes into her back through the bed. There’s a moment of house quiet—the creak of a floorboard, the rustling of blankets, the groan of a heating vent. </p><p>“Goodnight, Eve,” Villanelle murmurs, tucked into bed. </p><p>Eve blinks slowly, wanting to pretend she didn’t hear. But she can’t.</p><p>“See you in the morning.”</p><p>Villanelle rolls over, falling fast asleep. Eve’s eyes stay glued open. It’s going to be a long night.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. catch a plane</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A penniless Villanelle and Eve head to Barcelona to recover Villanelle's cash stash at her extravagant Spanish villa.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hello! yes it is technically still sunday despite being 11:30 so we still did it   Spanish translations will be at the bottom of the chapter in the notes section. hope you guys enjoy this monster of an update, and we'll hopefully see you guys next week!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Eve does not sleep a wink that night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Every time she closes her eyes, images of Villanelle plague her mind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her soft, earnest expression the day they met. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Wear it down,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> she whispers slowly, each syllable cascading down Eve’s body like a shiver. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The way her hand cupped her cheek on the bed before Eve let vengeance get the best of her. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I really liked you,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> she screams desperately as she grasps the hilt of the knife imbedded in her stomach.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hardness of her gaze, her body leaning in, heat radiating off the thin silk robe that separates her skin from her own.  </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I feel things when I’m with you,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>she murmurs, but the stench of sweat and sex clouds the memory. White hot jealousy burning in her chest, she slams the door on her way out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sound of her breathy moans through the ear piece, getting faster and faster and faster and </span>
  <em>
    <span>faster</span>
  </em>
  <span>...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>.... </span>
  <em>
    <span>And that</span>
  </em>
  <span> marks the end of Eve’s 7:30 am power nap attempt. She notes sleep is much more difficult when the subject of one’s fantasy is snoring in the bunk bed below. Another note, Villanelle snores. Loudly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go to sleep, Eve,” mumbles a sleep-laden voice from underneath her, nearly sending her tumbling over the edge of the top bunk. “Your brain is too loud. I need my beauty rest.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You snore too loud,” is Eve’s half-assed retort. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Villanelle gasps. “I do not.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You do, and it’s messing with my beauty rest.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She hears the sheets rustle as Villanelle stretches every limb in her body, groaning in the process. Eve knows she can’t see her, but she hopes she can hear her roll her eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know, Eve?” Villanelle muses. “If you’re going to be grumpy the whole time, maybe we should go our separate ways.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eve ignores her and glances at the clock, also race car themed, and sees it is still 7:30. She sits up, figuring it’s better to get their asses moving earlier rather than later. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She descends the ladder with precision, careful to place one foot after the other. There may have been a drunken night a couple weeks ago where she took to the top bunk and sprained her ankle on the fall down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>One rung before she hits the ground, and she stumbles, grasping the wood close. Suddenly, Villanelle is behind her, putting a steadying hand on her shoulder. Long fingers play with the cloth of Eve’s sleep shirt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is nice,” she murmurs, in a voice identical to the one from her dream. “Is it 100% cotton?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The urge to press closer into her warm body is overwhelming, a reminder of the heat against her back on the bridge last night, their heads resting together in a half-hearted bullshit promise to never see each other again. Yet, here they are, not 12 hours later, sharing a bunk bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eve yanks her arm away, not even close to  ready to confront their newfound intimacy.  Villanelle’s fingers hover in the air, and she takes an apologetic step away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry,” she says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eve moves past her to pull a loose sweater from her duffel bag and tugs it on over her head. “Never thought I’d hear you say that,” she jokes while she pushes her tucked curls out from the collar. When she looks back up at the other woman, she’s staring at the floor, her mind somewhere else. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eve begins to replace her shorts with a pair of jeans she smells and confirms are fairly clean. When she turns back around, Villanelle’s gaze has removed itself from the ground and is planted on her bare legs. She becomes viscerally aware she has stripped to her underwear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll go,” Villanelle says but makes no move to leave, eyes still stuck to her unshaved skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eve shakes her head, figuring it time for an olive branch and too tired to be spiteful. “It’s fine.” She grips her jeans and shoves her legs in, jumping up and down to pull them up. Villanelle watches her, that small genuine smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After she finishes buttoning her pants, she gestures toward the duffel bag. “Do you need any clothes?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Villanelle wrinkles her nose in disgust. “No, I’ll wear what I wore yesterday,” she says then stops. “Actually...” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eve raises an eyebrow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is there a shower I could use?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, uh,” she fumbles, trying not to imagine Villanelle in a steaming hot shower, beads of water forming on her naked collarbone as she sensually rubs soap in some choice places. “Yeah. There’s towels too. Jamie said we could use them.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Villanelle smirks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean you. You could use them.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They both walk to the door, and Villanelle pushes it open. The smell of a fresh pot of coffee wafts past, and Eve’s mouth waters for the taste of liquid energy. Her eyelids are still heavy with the sleep she didn’t get. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The bathroom is there, right?” Villanelle points at a doorway before the kitchen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eve nods, and they head to their respective destinations. Villanelle shuts the bathroom door behind her, and Eve stares at it for a second, wondering if it was an invitation to follow her in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eve. Coffee,” calls Jamie’s gruff voice from the kitchen. She strolls forward, a bit too casually, into Jamie’s small but respectable eating quarters. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes a sip of his coffee, eyes judgmentally glaring over the steam. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” She asks, pretending not to notice, and pours herself a cup into an empty mug as she lowers into one of the chairs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hope you didn’t get nasty in my childrens’ bed with an assassin.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eve chokes on her coffee, and the hot liquid slams into the back of her throat. She coughs, trying to ease the burning sensation. “Excuse me?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods his head in the direction of the bathroom. “Well, she’s takin’ a shower, isn’t she?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Eve answers slowly, “because she wants to… freshen up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He takes another sip, judgmental as ever. “Freshen up from what exactly?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eve smacks his forearm. “Stop,” she says and means it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Leaning back in his chair, he swirls the coffee in his mug. “One day, I’ll ask you about what happened. And you’ll tell me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“One day,” she agrees but doesn’t mean it. Jamie would have to pry that chaotic disaster of a story from Eve’s cold dead hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They sit in silence, drinking their coffee while Jamie flips through the paper. She likes this about their friendship. Before the events of the past two days, it was their morning routine. Drink coffee, read the paper, head to Bitter Pill. And it was mostly silent, except if Jamie found an interesting article. Their time together is not filled with idle conversation. They could merely coexist. After a lifetime of idle conversation, Jamie is a welcome change for which Eve is grateful. It’s hard for her to say it, so she hopes he knows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, Villanelle doesn’t understand the meaning of comfortable silence because she bursts into the kitchen, clad in her Big Bird coat, hair down and air drying. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you have espresso?” She asks, boldly, and Jamie glares at her. She frowns. “Ugh, of course not. We’ll get some at the train station.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Train?” Jamie inquires, interest piqued. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eve sighs. “We’re headed for—“ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Berlin,” Villanelle answers, nodding at Eve in unspoken conversation to not betray their whereabouts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine,” she says out loud, then turns to Jamie. “We’re going to Barcelona.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eve!” Villanelle objects as she pops a stale muffin into her mouth and grimaces. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is knowing this going to get me killed?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” “Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can’t tell people where we’re going if you want to stay under the radar,” Villanelle scolds in a hushed voice, despite Jamie sitting right next to them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s good for at least someone to know where we are,” she argues back also in a hushed voice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Villanelle huffs and crosses her arms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jamie sips his coffee again, glancing back and forth between them. “I hear Barcelona is a great couple’s getaway. You ladies have fun.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eve groans, and Villanelle grins. “I like him.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t,” she growls and abruptly stands up. “We need to leave anyway. Get on the earliest train. It takes 10 hours.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“10 hours,” Villanelle groans, slumping over on the table, making the mugs rattle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eve stares at her. “You literally make that trip all the time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In first class, Eve. Not on </span>
  <em>
    <span>the train.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” She says the word like it’s a piece of food stuck in her teeth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” Eve grabs her purse off the chair, “You have no money, and I barely have any, and it’s the cheapest option, so let’s go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine.” Villanelle stands too, squinting at Eve pointedly, then heading back to the bedroom presumably to get her stuff. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jamie smirks from behind his mug of coffee. “Oh, to be young and in love again.” He wistfully takes a dainty sip. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knowing physical violence is not the answer, Eve glares at him hard enough to make him spontaneously combust instead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He puts his hands up in surrender. “I just call it like I see it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then don’t look,” she snaps, and it’s kind of over the top, but she doesn’t apologize. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ookay, touchy.” He goes back to reading his newspaper. Eve likes it better when he’s quiet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Villanelle returns not a half a second later with all of Eve’s luggage. “Here. Don’t want to leave anything behind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The nice gesture is surprising enough that Eve questions the motives behind it. However, Villanelle looks so pleased with herself and her niceness, and she realizes the blonde international assassin is actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>trying </span>
  </em>
  <span>to impress her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She warily plucks her things from Villanelle’s arms, swinging her duffle bag over one shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“... Thanks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re very welcome,” she responds. Her eyes bore into Eve’s own. A glint of something more lingers behind them. Something unspoken. She’s so different now, leading Eve to think once again, as she did in the ballroom, “What happened?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eh hem.” Jamie clears his throat, pulling Eve from her thoughts. He’s staring at the both of them with raised eyebrows. She wants to smack him again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ignoring his judgment, she turns to Villanelle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ready?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ready.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright then. Jamie, thank you,” she starts, but he waves her off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t worry about it. Have a fun trip.” He points with two fingers. “Be good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eve rolls her eyes, and they’ve rolled so much in the past 24 hours, she wonders if they’re close to rolling out of her head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We won’t,” Villanelle shoots back, that shark-like smile spreading across her cheeks. She grabs Eve’s hand, and, before she can react, they’re headed out the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Villanelle settles quickly, propping her feet up on the seat opposite her. There are three seats to a row, and Eve has taken the aisle, leaving Villanelle to look out the window. There is one conspicuous space between them, and Eve has occupied it with a bulky day bag. Villanelle tries not to look put out about this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eve is scrolling through a map of Barcelona, evidently planning their transportation from the train to Villanelle’s apartment. Bored already, Villanelle digs through the day bag, evidently looking for something. She extracts an iPad from the largest pocket and situates it in her lap, tapping in the password with ease. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eve looks at her askance. “Where did that—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Borrowed it from Jamie,” Villanelle offers as explanation, flipping through the apps. “I wonder if he has any good movies?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eve sputters, glancing around furtively as if the other passengers were on high alert for stolen iPads. “Honestly, you are just </span>
  <em>
    <span>asking </span>
  </em>
  <span>for trouble,” She hisses. Villanelle tuts, hardly listening.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What a shame. It appears to just be paperwork,” She makes a vague ‘what can you do’ face before her expression shifts. “Ohhh, oh ho ho—Eve! I have found Jamie’s Tinder!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That is </span>
  <em>
    <span>private!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Eve snaps. A beat. Her face softens into something mischievous. “Give it to me,” She grins, pulling the iPad from Villanelle’s hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is, in fact, Jamie’s Tinder profile. His first picture is of him at his desk at work, small smile. She flips to the next one, and it’s him in a birthday hat, arm swung around two identical little boys also in birthday hats. His kids, she presumes. The next couple pictures are boring, standard dating website ones. He’s biking. He’s on a beach. Etc. Etc. Returning to the one of his children, she examines it, taking in every piece. She notices the twins, both leaning into his shoulder, feigned embarrassment plastered on their faces, but their body language reads relaxed. Jamie’s grin is so wide and genuine, it almost makes her want to smile back. She can’t recall a single second where she saw him that happy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scrolling down, his bio reads “Family man and Journalist searching for good company in this strange little world… Aren’t we all?” It makes her pause. Are they the same? Two people, starved for company, in search of a new life, desperate to both erase and hold onto as much of the past as they can. Granted, Jamie’s methods are more conventional than hers. Online dating beats running away with an assassin for normalcy by a landslide. She peers at said assassin out of the corner of her eye, maybe trying to figure out if she’s like that too. Lonely, strange, a yellow-coated alien looking for someone to talk to because… aren’t we all?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Villanelle is staring right back at Eve, clearly waiting for something after her dive into Tinder. She pushes the iPad back into her arms, and Villanelle frowns.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Eve asks as she mindlessly sifts through her day bag, not sparing the other woman a second glance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shifting in her seat, she places her cheek on her fist in mock disappointment. “You looked at it for so long I thought you found something juicy.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Eve responds and zips her bag back up. “Basic Tinder stuff.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It figures he would be boring.” She sighs, tapping on the iPad’s screen in search of new entertainment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eve stifles a massive yawn, squinting her eyes shut. Villanelle looks on in carefully masked concern. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should try to sleep,” She says, somewhat softer than she meant to. Eve’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly. She weighs protesting for a moment, but instead, just sighs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Eve agrees warily, but rearranges herself to nap nonetheless. She stuffs her parka to the side, tucks her legs up on the seat, and turns towards the window—towards Villanelle—before closing her eyes. Villanelle is pretending not to pay attention, casting her gaze elsewhere. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Strangely, Eve finds it much easier to fall asleep than she did the night before. Maybe it’s the rocking of the train, or the warmth of the compartment, or maybe it’s sheer exhaustion—regardless, she dozes off quickly, trying not to think of Villanelle watching her as she sleeps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eve falls almost immediately into a dream. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She is aware of water. Black, murky, turbulent. The Thames River, below the bridge. It reaches itself out to her, curling around her ankles, her calves. Eve turns to run, and the dream shifts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her old kitchen, morning light filtering in. The same mugs on the counter that Niko and Eve drank from every morning, filled to the brim with steaming coffee. A book, laid flat on the table, resting on a page. Life, paused, and then: Villanelle. Hair tousled with sleep and cloaked in a satin bathrobe, she carries the chicken under one arm. “I need to go to the store today,” She murmurs offhandedly through a yawn before the dream runs away from Eve once more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A bus stop. The cool and dark tang of an autumnal night, orange street lamps, the smell of diesel. No bus comes. When Eve stands to go, the sky cracks open into inexplicably warm rain. She reaches her hands out to cradle the rain as it falls; it stains her skin red. Blood. When she wipes her hands against her chest, it won’t come off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eve awakens abruptly to the sound of Villanelle’s laughter. Eyes trained on the iPad, Villanelle is cracking up, evidently deeply engrossed in whatever movie she has managed to download. The grin reaches her eyes, crinkling them at the corners, and Eve can’t help but smile too. She suddenly realizes that she has been covered in her parka, as though someone has drawn it over her like a blanket while she slept. Eve shifts in her surprise, and Villanelle notices. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, you are awake.” One corner of her lips pulls upward into a smile as she tugs the headphones out of her ears. “How was your sleep?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine,” Eve says, still bemused about the makeshift blanket. “How long was I out?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“About two hours,” Villanelle checks her phone, glancing out the window. “I think we are most of the way through France.” Eve groans and stretches deeply, cracking her neck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are an old lady,” Villanelle prods. When Eve pretends to look affronted, she smiles, adding smugly, “Oh, come on. You know I like it.” Eve snorts, but Villanelle doesn’t look away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What movie are you watching?” Eve asks abruptly, eager to change the subject.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘When Harry Met Sally’. I rented it on Jamie’s iTunes account.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You rent—“ but her growling stomach interrupts her thought process. “Forget it,” she mutters, glancing down the aisle of the train. “God, I’m hungry. I’m going to check the snack car.” Eve stands, tucks her parka onto the rack over their seats, then pauses, struck by a thought. “Do...do you want anything?” Villanelle looks strangely touched as Eve lingers, waiting for her. Thinking of her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Something salty.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eve nods, then motions as though she is going to say something else, but stops herself. She turns and goes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Eve wanders through the train, she is suddenly struck by the magnitude of what she is doing, and at the same time, overcome with the simple mundanity of it all. On one hand, she’s travelling with an assassin to her base in Barcelona so they can collect her dirty money and flee the country. On the other, she is a woman riding a train. She walks down the aisles, crossing through cars, absorbing the bland normalcy of the other passengers. In the quiet car, there are people young and old with headphones in, listening to music or nodding off. In another, a father reads to his young daughter, who points excitedly at the pictures he is describing. At the snack counter, an older woman sorts through packets of crisps. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eve wonders if they can ever just be passengers on a train. If they even want to be. Like the bio on Jamie’s Tinder profile, it’s not a question she can answer just yet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So she orders up a couple of bags of crisps, two bottles of water, and some overly shiny red delicious apples. Enough to share. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Villanelle is munching through the last of the food and tucking the apple cores into the crisp bags just as the sun begins to wax golden on the horizon. Eve reads the news, scanning the London headlines for any mention of Paul’s death. When her search comes up empty, she’s not surprised—it’s been less than a day, and who knows just how many organizations had an interest in keeping it out of the papers. Suddenly, her phone dings with a notification.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Villanelle?” Eve looks up, startled. “What did you—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I texted you the number of a dinner place,” She explains somewhat hesitantly, one hand occupied by her phone, the other in her mouth as she sucks the apple stickiness off her fingers. “I thought we might order in, Eve. Excellent Spanish food, since we are in the country.” Villanelle bites her cheek, wanting to say more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, we could...we could do that.” Eve finds herself agreeing nervously, like this is a first date. “Once we get your money,” She reminds her, speeding past the dinner invitation as fast as possible and conscious of the ever-lightening wallet in her pocket. Villanelle nods in agreement as Eve adds the restaurant contact to her phone, because yes, she </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>an old lady. Suddenly, a name next to the restaurant in her contacts catches her eye. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Julio Alvarez. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Eve blinks, straining to remember why his name grabbed her attention. Slowly, it comes to her: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Alvarez</span>
  </em>
  <span>. An old MI5 contact she had once coordinated protection for while he was in London. The details filter back. A brilliantly white smile, clean-shaven face, warm brown eyes, the gentle lilt of Carribean Spanish. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Call me if you ever need </span>
  </em>
  <span>anything</span>
  <em>
    <span>, anything at all.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>A wink, an insolent grin. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“If you’re ever in Cuba, just drop me a line.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>There it was, laying in front of Eve. Their ticket out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eve opens her mouth to share this information with her travelling companion but is cut off by an announcement over the loudspeakers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Llegaremos a Barcelona en diez minutos. </span>
  </em>
  <span>We will arrive in Barcelona in ten minutes.” Villanelle looks out the window at the city gradually building itself up around them as they drew nearer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Huh. I have never seen it before like this,” She muses. “It is nice.” Villanelle offers her a smile, bathed in evening light. Eve smiles back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Villanelle appears to think something over for several moments before making a decision. Hesitantly, the blonde extends her hand to Eve, fingers outstretched and trembling, ever-so-slightly. Carefully, she reaches out her own and meets Villanelle’s eyes as they touch. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>This is what you wanted. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Something tugs in her chest. She clasps Villanelle’s hand tightly for just a moment, then pulls away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eve clears her throat. “Well, we better pack up,” She says, a little too loudly, looking elsewhere before she can see the pained confusion flicker across Villanelle’s face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The extravagant Spanish villa is only 5 kilometres from the train station. However, it takes them over an hour to get there because of a pointless argument regarding their transportation to the location. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I won’t take the Metro. I don’t like it,” Villanelle huffs, shoving her hands in her coat pockets like a petulant teenager. Upon finding out they would not be taking a private jet or stretch limo to her apartment, she had made it her job to berate, pester, and annoy Eve until she somehow changed her mind. She didn’t even help when they couldn’t find the station exit, leaving Eve to GoogleTranslate Spanish directions on her phone, knowing full well Villanelle spoke the language. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then the bus. You’re the one who left her money in Barcelona, not me.” Eve responds as she turns the map brochure upside down to try to make sense of the comprehensive system presented before her. Ignoring Villanelle’s attitude and muttered insults, she cocks her head 90 degrees, hoping that will help. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She frowns, spinning the map back to what she </span>
  <em>
    <span>thinks </span>
  </em>
  <span>is the correct position. Maybe her phone will have suggestions. Too busy to consider holding the foldable paper in a practical way, she bites it and uses her two hands to rapidly type searches into Google. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jesus, Eve.” She hears Villanelle’s voice chuckle from somewhere to her left. “Get that out of your mouth. Give me that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eve lowers her phone into her pocket and removes the map from her teeth. She pushes the soggy brochure into Villanelle’s open palm, of which is making impatient grabby gestures at her. </span>
</p><p><span>Villanelle grabs it with the tips of her fingers, as if Eve’s spit is full of viral diseases she would rather die than touch. She swallows the “</span><em><span>Cut the act, you liked it when I kissed you” </span></em><span>crowning</span> <span>the cusp of her throat. It burns on the way down. </span></p><p>
  <span>“You know,” interrupts Villanelle, “it really is a failure of the American school system. That you don’t know Spanish.” Her shark smile is barely hidden behind the map. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a failure of the Russian prison system you didn’t stay locked up,” she snaps, quick enough that Villanelle is taken by surprise, eyes widened for a brief moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The blonde bursts into laughter, nearly doubling over, brochure clutched in a waving fist. “Good one, Eve! You’re getting better!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eve finds herself smiling and notes that they may have more to talk about, to joke about, to </span>
  <em>
    <span>laugh </span>
  </em>
  <span>about than global crime and international assassinations. That beyond all of this fucking bullshit they exist in, there’s an Eve and Villanelle who enjoy each other. Perhaps that Eve and Villanelle is them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Villanelle calms down and drapes a loose arm over her stomach to repress more giggles from bubbling up. It’s almost endearing to watch her stick her tongue out, flicking her eyes back and forth to discern the various Metro lines. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a beat, she puts the paper down. “Okay, I got it.” She starts walking to the street, and Eve pads after her, waiting to be led to the Metro. When they reach the edge of the curb, instead of looking to cross, Villanelle reaches a thumb out, screaming, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Taxi!” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Eve nearly pushes her into oncoming traffic. “Villanelle,” she hisses, “We can’t afford a taxi right now when the Metro is a quarter of the price.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine, Eve, I’ve got this,” she says as a taxi pulls in front of them. She rolls her shoulders back, lifts her head up high, and opens the door to the car. Eve follows behind because what the fuck else is she going to do. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Buenas noches, señoras</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” says the cab driver while they situate themselves. As soon as Villanelle settles in her seat she begins sobbing. Full body heave sobbing. Eve presses against the door in horror. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>¿Qué pasa?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” the driver shouts, slightly terrified as well. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Dios mío, mi esposa y yo nos enteramos,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” she cries, falling over her lap. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Su padre estara muerto en media hora. Acabamos de llegar desde el tren de Londres, y ella podría no llegar a verlo,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” She wails loudly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not having any idea what they’re saying, Eve can only stare at the sobbing assassin, who glances up from her contorted position and gives Eve a wink. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The cab driver steps on the gas. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Rápidamente, señora. Dime la dirección. Se llevaré allí rápido gratis.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p><span>Villanelle wipes the crocodile tears from her eyes. “</span><em><span>Gracias, señor</span></em><span>, </span><em><span>usted</span></em> <em><span>es un buen hombre.</span></em><span>” The driver harumphs, and they’re off. Villanelle recounts the address to him in Spanish. She leans back into the seat, turning to Eve with a fake tear-stained grin. “Handled.” </span></p><p>
  <span>Eve, still annoyed but also kind of impressed and not wanting to admit it, rolls her eyes. Folding her arms, she turns to look out the window and watch the beautiful Barcelona scenery pass, ignoring the lingering gaze burning into her parka. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Although it took them an hour to decide on transportation, it takes two minutes to arrive, thanks to their loyal cab driver performing several illegal maneuvers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He drops them off in front of what looks like a Spanish castle much less a 26 year old’s apartment. Eve tumbles out of the car, awestruck, and day bag in one hand, with Villanelle close behind her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“¡</span>
  <em>
    <span>Mis oraciones están con ustedes!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” The driver shouts, then speeds off in the direction they came. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Villanelle casually strolls to the front gate, lifts a panel, and presses a bunch of numbers into it. When she finishes, they wait to watch the gate open. It doesn’t, so Villanelle returns to the panel, trying another set of numbers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eve peers over her shoulder, watching the button presses grow more and more frustrated. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Twelve really set you up, huh?” She observes, casting her eyes across the stylish brick exterior of the home. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not now, Eve,” Villanelle replies, deadly focused on the code situation. Another combination. No luck. She bangs her fist on the device. “Bastards,” she growls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eve blinks, scenario becoming clear to her now. The Twelve changed the locks. There was no way they were getting in, and, now, they had no money and no place to stay. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Villanelle shrugs and regains her composure after one more punch. “It’s fine. We’ll just climb the fence.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eve peers closer at the house, noticing movement in the front yard. “I don’t think we can do that right now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the front of the house is a stereotypical American tourist family. A dad, wearing a polo, with a receding hairline and inexplicable sunburn on his forehead, unlocks the front door, while his wife, hands on her fanny packed strapped hips, scolds him from behind. Their two kids, a teenage girl, who looks incredibly unamused, and a young boy wait for their father to jimmy the lock. The wife nags him again, and the dad responds by angrily slamming his shoulder into the door, which opens, and he falls inside. The kids burst into laughter, and their mom suppresses a chuckle as they walk in after him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Cheap bastards,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Villanelle hisses, now crowded behind Eve to watch through the gate. Eve ignores how the heat of her presence makes her hair stand up. She turns to say something but narrowly avoids crashing her head into Villanelle’s. Realizing she may have crossed a boundary, Villanelle takes a respectful step back, and Eve nods in unspoken gratitude. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The assassin moves to the curb and sits, her long legs stretch into the street, dejected. “So,” Eve says after awhile, “The Twelve put your apartment on Airbnb and rented it out to American tourists.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It appears that way, Eve.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How are we getting your money? Your passports? Everything we need? It’s all in that house, I mean, how do we know they didn’t take it out already when they were cleaning like—“ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They didn’t.” She says it firmly but doesn’t elaborate. It’s interesting for Eve to see her like this, lacking her self-assured confidence. She is normal. Things don’t always work out for her. She’s reminded of the brief panic that had flashed across her face in the Russian café as she held both Konstantin and her at gunpoint. The point when she had understood she had lost control of the situation. It was the same panic Eve saw in Rome, right before a bullet lodged itself in her shoulder blade.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” Eve starts, slumping next to her on the curb, their shoulders bumping accidentally. “What do you want to do?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Villanelle looks at her and are those— tears? Pricking at the corner of her eyes. She scoffs. “I don’t think you’ve ever asked me that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have! Like when—“ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Villanelle raises her eyebrows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eve sighs. “Okay, probably not, but I’m asking now.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bumping their shoulders again as she shifts, Villanelle lets out a small breath from her nose. “Honestly?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Honestly. What do you want to do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their faces are close enough that Eve is now seeing the err of her question. Because if this Villanelle is anything like the Villanelle she’s known this past year, there’s a ninety percent chance it involves ravaging Eve on the sidewalk. An activity that even the thought of makes her brain explode, in mostly a bad way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Villanelle leans in, and Eve is having a hard time stopping from leaning in also. Their noses are almost touching, and it would only be a small movement for their lips to touch too. “Honestly,” she says, her eyes unwavering from Eve’s mouth, “I want to go to sleep. Do we have enough for a hotel?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eve pulls back, her mind swimming with the implications of what she almost just did. “Uh, yes,” she fumbles for her phone. “I think there’s some discount hotels closer to the train station. But no—“ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Taxis,” Villanelle finishes. “I know.” She rises from the curb and reaches a hand out for Eve to grab. She gladly takes it, heaving herself up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The blonde turns down the street with purpose, and Eve speeds forward to match her pace. “Do you need the Metro map?” She asks, presenting it to her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Villanelle shakes her head. “No. We take the …” She launches into a detailed description of the two metro lines they would have to take to return to the train station. So detailed, Eve can barely keep track of what she’s saying until she finishes her explanation with a sigh. “And then we’re there!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eve stops. “You knew the whole time and still pulled that taxi stunt.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please, Eve,” she says without turning. “Of course, I know, I just don’t like it. And,” she stops too, waiting for Eve to reach her. “I like to polish my acting from time to time.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re an asshole,” she gripes and hauls her bag over her shoulder to secure it against her back. Villanelle plucks it from her arms like it weighs nothing, tossing the strap on her own. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Work on that upper body strength. You’re going to need it when we climb that fence tomorrow,” she tuts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck off. Let’s just get to the hotel.” She folds her arms in disdain but the lack of weight reminds her how sore they are from lugging her pack around. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Villanelle flashes her a knowing smirk, leading the way down the Metro tunnel. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eve is sitting on an old couch in the hotel lobby, watching the news on the TV without comprehending a word of it. She doesn’t think it’s the Spanish that’s responsible for that, either. Instead of getting dinner, as it was already so late, and they didn’t have a lot of money to spare, they had taken advantage of the free hotel cookies and called it good—after all, they could get a better breakfast in the morning. Eve brushes crumbs off her shirt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>To keep her eyes from sliding shut while Villanelle checks them in, she forces herself to vaguely listen for any mention of “Londres,” but doubts that the death of a random British intelligence official would make the local Barcelona news. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After about ten minutes, at which point Eve is on the verge of unconsciousness, Villanelle finishes up at the counter and returns to the couch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, sleepyhead,” She prods, nudging Eve lightly with her foot. Eve groans, dragging her eyes open. “I got us a room.” Eve staggers to her feet and Villanelle grabs their duffel bag, standing behind the curly-haired woman as though to catch her if she were to fall over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Villanelle opens the door, she wrinkles her nose. The room smells thickly of smoke and decades-old carpet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why did you get a smoking room?” Eve asks through a yawn, rubbing at her eyes. When she opens them, she is greeted with the sight of two sagging single mattresses. Villanelle turns away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was the only room left where we could...sleep comfortably.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Eve handed over check-in responsibilities to the blonde, she wasn’t sure what to expect. Mostly, she was trying to give her more of an equal role in their planning. Letting her make the decisions too, and all that. She assumed she’d have to suck up sharing a bed, and definitely didn’t think the high-class assassin would settle for anything smaller than a queen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last thing Eve expected was Villanelle going out of her way to let her take things slow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well.” Eve breaks the silence. “You can pick first.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Villanelle appears to seriously consider her options. “I will take the bed by the radiator.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right,” She offers lamely, still reeling from the unexpected consideration. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They stand there for a moment, awkward and frozen. Villanelle responds by dropping the duffel at the foot of her selected twin and pulling off her mustard-bottle coat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I guess...I’ll go shower,” Eve says, still frozen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right.” Villanelle repeats, only mocking her slightly. Eve resists the urge to roll her eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She showers quickly, avoiding lingering on any one thought for too long. Instead, she focuses on the motions—the things that have stayed the same. How her fingers feel working shampoo into her scalp. The way bar soap lathers on her hands, the low-pressure hotel water tracking streaks down her skin. It all grounds Eve, clearing away the heaviness of fatigue and exhaustion to simply leave her warm and sleepy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time she’s towelled off and dressed in her pjs, she’s nearly swaying on the spot. The stress and pace of the last several days has finally caught up with Eve. When she slides open the bathroom door to the room, though, she is greeted with darkness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Villanelle?” Eve asks, squinting through the dim. No response. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She moves closer to the beds, feeling her way around in the dark until her eyes finally begin to adjust. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Villanelle is fast asleep on her side, snoring softly. Her hair splays out messily over the pillow, and one hand holds the scratchy hotel blanket close to her face—tightly, as though someone might take it away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the dark of the room, no one would be able to see Eve lean down and kiss her, ever-so-gently, on the forehead, before she herself climbs into bed and gives in to sleep. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next morning, Eve awakes to the sound of the door opening, which, when one is trying to not get murdered by a crime syndicate, is a terrifying noise. She shoots up, grabs her pack off the ground, and yanks a gun out of one of the pockets, shakily aiming it at the intruder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The intruder who, as it turns out, is Villanelle, carrying a shopping bag and a takeout bag. She nods at Eve, unfazed, almost impressed. “That was much better than when you pointed that toilet brush at me. You’ve improved.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eve lowers her weapon, double checking the safety then stuffing it back into her pack. “Thanks,” she replies dryly. Once the gun is secured in its pocket, she looks back up. Villanelle is still standing in the entryway with the two bags, regarding her with mild amusement. A divine aroma hits her nose just as her stomach utters a low rumble. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that—” She points at the brown takeout bag. </span>
</p><p><span>“Breakfast.” Villanelle places it on the TV stand, and Eve waddles over, legs still wobbly from sleep but hands greedy for sustenance. She pulls out </span><em><span>pan con</span></em> <em><span>tomate</span></em><span> and tears into the aluminum covering like a wolf into its prey, unfazed by the savory nature of the Spanish breakfast. The blonde watches her for a beat, amused as ever, before turning to toss her shopping bag on the bed.</span></p><p>
  <span>A few bites into her tomato, olive oil, and garlic toast, Eve notices Villanelle isn’t wearing the giant yellow coat she had become so familiar with the past few days. Now, her hair is tied back in a ponytail, and she wears a loose button-down tucked into slacks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“New clothes?” She asks, wiping the crumbs from her mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” she says and pulls out a folded leather duffle from the large white shopping bag. It has a logo on it Eve doesn’t recognize, but it looks expensive. With careful precision, Villanelle unwraps it from its plastic. When she’s finished, she lifts it to her face and takes a sniff. Satisfied with the quality and smell, she places the bag down onto the sheets, unzips it, and starts packing her purchases. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After she swallows down the last of her </span>
  <em>
    <span>pan</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it occurs to Eve they cannot afford any of the designer fashion Villanelle is currently putting in her new designer duffle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, how did you buy those?” She points at the shopping bag and duffle. “Or that?” She glares at the balled aluminum foil, the only remainder of her devoured breakfast. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Villanelle zips the duffle shut, taking her time to answer the question. “With this.” She flashes a credit card in between two fingers. Eve’s credit card. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you fucking kidding me?” Eve stomps to the bed and grabs the white shopping bag off it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sighs. “Eve, I’d been wearing the same outfit for two days. I needed underwear!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Armani underwear?” She exclaims, finally recognizing the logo.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Villanelle drapes the brand new, designer, leather duffle bag over her shoulder and tugs it protectively into her side. “I have standards.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have debt!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine. Your debt won’t matter soon because you will be a new woman…” She pauses for effect then makes a dramatic hand flourish. “Angela Michaels.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eve furrows her eyebrows. “What.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Angela Michaels,” she repeats like Eve should know as she plops on the bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Torn between not wanting to humor her and curiosity, she just stares, watching the assassin kick her legs back and forth like an 8-year-old who can’t stay still even when sitting. It’s silent for a minute as they compete in their battle of wills. Villanelle is staring back at her, a glint in her eye that lets Eve know she is going to lose. She always loses this game. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay. Who is Angela Michaels?”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Villanelle responds with a triumphant grin. “I made us fake passports. New identities. Angela and Julie Michaels. They’re with my money at the apartment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When did you…” Eve starts, but the way her expression darkens gives her enough information. They’re walking through the ruins in Rome, the sound of the axe connecting with Raymond’s skull still ringing in her ears. The wind against her face is the blood splatter across her cheek, and the iron stench is caught in the back of her throat. She swallows down a retch. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Alaska</span>
  </em>
  <span> she hears the other woman say, but it’s lost. It’s lost as a murder of crows flies past, startling them both. It’s lost as soon as she sees the small gun poised to shoot in Villanelle’s hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Villanelle clears her throat, bringing Eve back to the present. “We should go soon. There’s a nice café across the street. We can wait for them to leave.” Her tone is hard and direct, and she has the feeling they were remembering the same thing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, just let me get changed, and we can check out,” she says, desperate to forget the memory of the ruins’ ground, cold and hard on her lips, as blood oozed out the hole in her back. She disappears into the bathroom with her pack before it can go any further. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The café across the street from the apartment is small and very busy. Luckily, the weather is a bit brisk, so they’re able to snag a table outside with no wait. Still low on funds and not ready to give up her Eve Polastri identity forever, debt and all, Eve is able to convince Villanelle to order only a latté while she sips a respectable small black Americano. From there, they watch the rental station wagon in the driveway, hoping the family decides to go sight-seeing at some point.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Surprisingly, for the most part, Villanelle stays silent as they wait, barring a few flirtatious comments exchanged with their attractive young waitress. Eve would have expected the woman to be as she was on the train, unfocused, desperate for entertainment. Instead, she is calculating, ready to strike at any given moment. Perhaps this is how she is on her assignments: a predator stalking her prey. The behavior fascinates Eve, and she finds her eyes wandering from the driveway to Villanelle’s face, examining the crease in her forehead, the swipe of her tongue that wipes away stray latté foam.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After three hours of sitting there, Eve starts to nod off into her folded arms on the table. She nearly tumbles out of her chair when Villanelle shifts abruptly, leaning in closer to watch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re leaving,” she says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sure enough, the family exits the front door. The mother and son head to the car while the father struggles with locking the house up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Villanelle stands, pulling the duffle bag off the back of her chair. “We need to go before the gate closes. We’ll slip in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eve nods and tosses a handful of Euros, the last in her wallet, onto the table, hoping it’s enough. She hurries after Villanelle, who is already pressing her back against the stone wall, waiting for the opportunity to pass through the gate unnoticed. Eve follows her lead. Not even a few seconds later, the large metal gate creaks open, and the rental car they spent the morning staring at rolls out onto the street.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lightning fast, Villanelle grabs Eve’s hand, pulling her inside before they get squished. Her heart is racing as the gate closes shut behind them. She takes a second to breath, while the assassin of their duo walks to the front door to survey their options. When Eve catches up with her, she’s jimmying the door handle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think that’s going to work,” Eve observes, glancing around the house. “Is there a window we can smash or something?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Villanelle huffs. “Give me one…” She slams her shoulder into the door, hard, and it swings open. “Second,” she finishes, proud of her work.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eve peers into the giant Spanish villa, almost intimidated. “Was your door like that the whole time? Weren’t you worried about someone breaking in?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The other woman looks at Eve blankly, and Eve remembers she’s talking to an international assassin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She thinks she sees Villanelle suppress a laugh. “My stuff is upstairs. You can wait in the kitchen if you want. It’s over there.” She points to the left.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine by me,” Eve shrugs, walking in that direction as Villanelle heads upstairs. Maybe the tourists have some good snacks. The first breakfast this morning was filling, but not enough to satisfy her for long. The kitchen is absolutely gigantic anyway. She beelines for the stainless-steel fridge, observing how gorgeous the property is. Tall ceilings, huge windows, new appliances, hardwood floors, open floor plan. She knows being an assassin is a lucrative career, but this exceeds all of her expectations. The house itself is probably three or four times the square footage of Villanelle’s Paris apartment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Could be time for a career change,” She says out loud to no one but herself and opens the fridge. She rummages through the selection: fruit, cheese, leftover empanadas, yogurts, wine. She’s about to reach for an apple when she hears a voice from behind her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her body goes rigid. The voice is a young girl, too young to be Villanelle playing a prank on her. Then, she recalls the family they watched climb into the car. A father, a mother, and a son. The night before, there had been a teenage daughter with them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly turning around, apple in hand, she faces a very pissed-off-looking 14-year-old girl.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, um.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The girl blinks at her accusingly, phone raised like a threat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eve’s mind races. They’re in Spain. It’s an Airbnb. She’s with an assassin who is currently upstairs. It’s an Airbnb. Fourteen-year-olds are the meanest of teenage girls. It’s an Airbnb. God, she doesn’t know how to talk to kids. They are in an Airbnb.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m with Airbnb,” her brain spits out. “I’m the host.” That was the lingo Niko used when they rented their spare room to a businessman a few years back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” the girl lowers her phone, visibly relaxing. “You’re Lori?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Eve answers quickly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did my dad ask you to come? That’s so him. It’s why I didn’t want to go on that stupid tour today. He’s always forgetting everything. I’m sick of it.” The girl scoffs and steps toward the center island, sitting in one of the high chairs, skinny teenager legs barely touching the ground.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> “Yeah. He, um,” she pauses, wracking her brain for another way out. “He called about the front door. Said you guys were having some trouble, and you would be out later today.” Nailed it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> She squints. “Then why are you looking through our fridge?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Eve hides the apple behind her back. “Oh, ha. Sometimes this thing is a little finicky. I wanted to make sure everything is in working order, you know?” Eve feels like the goddamn Grinch–caught red-handed with a tree that won’t light on one side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> The girl shrugs. “I guess… I’m Trish, by the way.” She stands to grab a cup off the counter, filling it with sink water and taking a sip. “Do you want anything to drink or whatever?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I’m good, thank—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Always with the worst possible timing, Villanelle shouts from the foyer, “Eve, I’ve got everything. Let’s go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who’s that? And who’s Eve?” questions the teenager, inching toward the phone she placed on the marble countertop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eve gives her a nervous smile. Before she can answer, Villanelle saunters in, a second duffle bag strapped around her opposite shoulder. “What did you, do get lost?” she jokes. As soon as she spots Trish, she stops in her tracks, her face dropping into something feral and protective.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, </span>
  <em>
    <span>sweetheart</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Eve says through clenched teeth. “Just speaking to one of our guests at </span>
  <em>
    <span>our </span>
  </em>
  <span>Airbnb. I was telling her we were fixing the front door.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re Eric?” Trish questions, even more suspicious. “You guys are Eric and Lori?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Villanelle responds, with a Spanish lilt to her voice, now an octave higher than her natural Russian accented speech. “When we signed up for the application, I misspelled my name. Bad fingers.” She waggles them for emphasis. “Erica, you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Trish calms again, and Eve moves from her spot near the fridge to Villanelle. “Well, we better get going!” she says cheerily. “We’ll call a locksmith for the door tomorrow.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Villanelle wraps an arm around her waist. Ignoring her automatic response to push her away, Eve leans into it. A devilish smirk grows on Villanelle’s lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, honey, always in such a rush.” She puts her hand to her mouth in a fake whisper. “The old ball and chain, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Trish doesn’t laugh. She’s barely even paying attention, already back on her phone probably to use that dumb bird app all the teens are obsessed with. Dom always was. “Bye guys,” she says without looking up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bye!” They both call at the same time, walking as briskly as possible all the way out of the house.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her arm still lingers around her waist when they reach the front gate again. Eve pries her fingers off, putting at least six feet of distance between them. Villanelle hits a button, and the metal barrier creaks open once more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“After you, </span>
  <em>
    <span>sweetheart</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” she croons.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck off,” she says, crossing the threshold into the streets of Barcelona, knowing their adventure has only just begun.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Villanelle clutches a stack of bills to her chest, flipping through them with glee. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, it is so good not to be poor again, Eve!” She sighs, inhaling the smell of the cash as they meander away from Villanelle’s old apartment. “Now we can buy whatever we want!” Eve’s ear lingers on the </span>
  <em>
    <span>we</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Until this point, she had thought of the stash they were laboring to retrieve as Villanelle’s, maybe something Eve could borrow from when she needed to. She hadn’t thought it through yet, but instinctually believed she would be earning her own money. And now what? A joint checking account with her fake wife, Julia Michaels? As Eve processes all this, she shakes her head somewhat bemusedly and checks her watch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can we get...” She racks her brain for the names of the Spanish mealtimes Villanelle described to her during their coffeehouse stakeout. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>La comida?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Villanelle grins, evidently pleased that she remembered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know a place.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Half an hour and a short walk later, they arrive at a small outdoor eatery and occupy a cute, tiled table for two. Villanelle insists on ordering for Eve, and she lets her, both unwilling to pick the battle and conceding the young woman’s familiarity with Spanish cuisine. Shortly, the two women are enjoying glasses of red wine with skewered serrano ham and honeydew melon. Eve is surprised by how much she likes the combination.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a long comfortable silence where the two munched happily on their first course in peace, Villanelle finally breaks the silence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, Eve” She smacks her lips, “What next?” Villanelle folds her hands under her chin expectantly.</span>
</p><p><span>“Well,” Eve says slowly, “While we were on the train, I remembered the name of an old MI5 contact.</span> <span>Julio Alvarez. He said I could call him if I was ever in a pinch.” Villanelle raises her eyebrows, silently urging Eve to go on. “Julio Alvarez...he lives in Cuba.”</span></p><p>
  <span>“Julio Alvarez,” Villanelle folds the name over in her mouth, nodding slightly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s, uh...a bit much,” Eve admits. “Let’s just say it’s a good thing Niko wasn’t the jealous type.” She chuckles. Villanelle frowns at the mention of the mustache. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How long ago was this?” The blonde asks, taking another bite of melon and ham. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mmm, maybe three or four years ago. Recently enough.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Villanelle appears to think for a second, then eyes the wads of cash in her designer bag, squinting carefully as though to make an estimation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” She shrugs. “Give him a call.” Eve startles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really? Like—right now?” Eve asks, glancing around as though they’re doing something wrong. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do it before the gazpacho arrives.” Villanelle looks unbothered, spontaneous. Eve envies her ability to take things in stride. A modern nomad. Just like that—the mention of a name and place—and she’s all but ready to move across an ocean. Wanting to match her nerve, Eve picks up her phone and dials the contact.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What time do you think it is there?” She wonders aloud as it rings once, twice—on the third ring, someone picks up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Julio,” A man’s voice answers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh....Julio? This is Eve Polastri. I used to be MI5?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eve!” He exclaims. “It’s been awhile! How’s London? How’s Niko?” From what Villanelle can overhear, he sounds genuine. Her inclination to dislike him on principle abates slightly. “Wait, used to be? Did you get promoted?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“More or less,” Eve mutters before pivoting the conversation. “Anyway, I—I need a favor. My—” She glances at Villanelle, “—companion and I need a place to stay. In Cuba. Preferably.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mmm, went a little rogue, did we?” He hums, and Eve can almost hear his smirk through the phone. “Things go south in London? Get wrapped up with the wrong sor—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Listen, Julio, we’re in a bit of a rush,” Eve snaps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah!” Villanelle interjects. “The gazpacho is almost here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you help us or not?” There’s silence on the line for a moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will need more information, but...let me see what I can do. Call me when you’re in Havana. Ideally tomorrow.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tomorrow!?” Eve chokes, glancing at her watch as though that action will spawn extra hours before the next day. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, catch a plane. Why wait?” He asks casually, sounding like he’s speaking through a mouthful of food. Eve glances at Villanelle for backup, who only leans back in her chair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why not, Eve? We can get out of that shitty hotel. Besides, I’ve always wanted to see the Carribean,” She smiles. Also genuine. The unexpected sincerity from all directions is wildly disarming. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Why not, Eve?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Catch a plane,” She repeats, testing the words. It was that simple. Eve could start everything again. A new name, a new apartment, a new...companion. And all she had to do was catch a plane. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tomorrow,” He confirms, then hangs up the phone. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Translations: </p><p>Buenas noches, señoras - Good evening ladies</p><p>¿Qué pasa? - What's wrong?</p><p>Dios mío, mi esposa y yo nos enteramos. Su padre estara muerto en media hora. Acabamos de llegar desde el tren de Londres, y ella podría no llegar a verlo - My god, my wife and I just found out her father will be dead within the hour. We have just arrived off the train from London, and she might not see him. </p><p>Rápidamente, señora. Dime la dirección. Se llevaré allí rápido gratis - Quickly, ma'am. Give me the address. I'll get there fast for free.</p><p>Gracias, señor, usted es un buen hombre - Thank you sir, you are a good man. </p><p>¡Mis oraciones están con ustedes! - My prayers are with you!</p><p>spanish by isabella! i am still learning spanish. i did my best to make sure these were grammatically correct/made sense but if they don't and you speak it, please drop me a dm and let me know! i want to get it right :) follow us on tumblr anna (@villanever) and isabella (@theatrelesbabe) and force us to write!! we are dumb</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. i’m so bored</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Eve and Villanelle fly to their life in Cuba and struggle with newfound intimacy</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hello sorry this is a day late it’s completely my (anna’s) fault because i stupidly didn’t wait to see if the doc updated before returning to my internet-less cabin hermit existence. on the bright side, i think the final product is even better than what you guys would have gotten had i been a responsible co-writer, so, you’re welcome. </p><p>if you want to listen to the fun playlist we’re making for the fic, to get the vibe we got while writing this chapter, check out the collaborative spotify playlist we’re making here (https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0TxFjHKUNxp57iTV3lYHtw?si=3PBMRcFaTKyhV1bhDTM_vQ ). anna’s portions of this chapter were written mostly to blue oyster cult.</p><p>also i’m super aware skymall went bankrupt but in the ke universe it is thriving and villanelle buys all their products</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>For Eve, nothing is as relaxing as sleeping on transportation. She hates the idleness of waiting to arrive somehwere. Sleep is a great way to combat her impatience. She fades into unconsciousness in one place and wakes up in another. Their flight to Cuba is a long one, and she wastes no time getting down to business, drifting off as their plane takes flight. Her plan works until about three hours in, which is longer than she initially thought. </p><p><em> “Eve </em>,” comes a Russian-accented voice, disturbing her precious mid-air slumber. She pushes away an additional pestering hand coming towards her shoulder without cracking an eye. </p><p>“I’m asleep,” she groans, burrowing further into her arms, folded on the seatback tray. </p><p>“<em> Eve </em> ,” comes the voice again, “ <em> It’s important </em>.” </p><p>That catches her attention. Important for her and Villanelle could vary from assassin trying to kill them on the plane to a new product advertised in SkyMall. No matter how stupid, the blonde woman has an affinity for piquing Eve’s interest, and she simply cannot restrain herself from participating in the game. </p><p>She lamely looks over, slow enough for Villanelle to shoot her a side eye. The flight attendant is next to their aisle, staring at Eve, and at the level of impatient in which one resorts to tapping their foot repeatedly. Eve thanks the lord their middle seat is unoccupied because she would feel terrible for the unfortunate traveler placed to sit with them. </p><p>“We’re ordering our drinks,” Villanelle explains to her like she’s senile. She pats Eve’s hand on the tray endearingly. “Do you want anything, <em> sweetheart </em>?” She’s smiling so wide Eve can see the blinding white of her teeth, sharp and waiting in the light of the morning sun. </p><p>The flight attendant huffs through her nose. “We have other passengers to attend to, ma’am.” </p><p>“Sorry,” Eve scrambles. “Get me some, um, coffee, black… please.” She throws on a half-hearted smile that the flight attendant does not return, instead spinning around to pour her drink.</p><p>Villanelle slumps. “Boring order, Eve.” She shakes her head in mock disappointment. </p><p>“How so?” Eve questions, gratefully taking the coffee from the pissed off flight attendant. With both hands, she grasps the cup, reveling in the steamy warmth on her fingertips. </p><p>Villanelle takes a swig of her own drink, golden brown in a clear plastic cup. She shrugs as she drinks. Her eyes glint in a challenge for Eve to interact. </p><p>She scoffs. “What do you have against black coffee?” She raises her cup and sloshes it around, her attempt of proving it a normal beverage. Believe it or not, Eve has a competitive streak. </p><p>Placing her drink daintily onto her own tray, Villanelle regards Eve with a disinterested expression. “You can tell a lot about a person by their airplane drink of choice.” She jabs a finger into her coffee cup. “Black coffee means you are severely depressed.” Her eyes now deadly serious, as if she’s actually concerned for Eve’s coffee diagnosed mental illness. </p><p>Eve barks out a laugh. “Well,” she says, gesturing up and down at herself. </p><p>“Mm,” Villanelle muses and takes the last mouthful of her drink. Leaning back in her chair, she reaches for some of the magazines stored in the seatback pocket. It’s an invitation for her to return to her nap, a momentary break from the game. She could take it, but she finds she’s not as tired anymore. </p><p>Genuinely curious, she nods at Villanelle’s now-empty cup. “What’s yours?”</p><p>“Apple juice,” she reveals, sitting up again, happy to engage. She likes playing just as much as Eve does. “It means I’m a fun delight to have around and look great in fall colors.” </p><p>“I do!” She protests in spite of Eve’s snort. </p><p>It’s nice to learn they can joke with each other after the frustration of the past several hours. Getting Villanelle to walk anywhere faster than a saunter is a challenge, and it becomes a significant burden when one is running late because they mixed up their flight information, requiring them to sprint to reach their plane on time. Luckily, she huffed and puffed her way to the desk in front of their gate just as they were starting to close it. They got a couple glares but were ultimately allowed on board. As they entered the aircraft, Villanelle maintained a comfortable stroll behind her, hands hanging loose from her pockets, as if her pace was the right one all along.  </p><p>Not to mention, earlier, they almost had been found with illegal firearms on them in an airport. Villanelle had forgotten about the weapons she had stored in the duffle containing the money and passports until they were five people away from the airline security belt. The assassin quickly faked an important phone call, excusing herself from the line, leaving Eve to continue to the gates without her. She waited on the other side for 20 minutes before Villanelle emerged, both bags still with her. It nearly had given her a heart attack. </p><p>And this all occurred after she learned how terrible Villanelle is at booking her own transportation. Her defense for her ineptitude was a pretentious: “I don’t book, I get booked.” Thus, the onus of responsibility fell upon Eve. </p><p>No wonder she’s slept for the first three hours of their 14-hour flight. </p><p>“<em> Eve </em>,” Villanelle jabs at her shoulder. She has half a pretzel rod sticking out of her mouth as she points at a SkyMall magazine open on her tray table. Using one hand to bite the rod and the other to hold the magazine, she pushes it toward her. In the humoring mood, Eve leans to read it. </p><p>“Look, Eve,” she says, munching on a pretzel, “It’s a Glow in the dark toilet seat. It’s amazing. It changes color and everything. Revolutionary, they call it, Eve.” She traces the word with a stray finger. “Revolutionary.”</p><p>Rolling her eyes, Eve returns to her seat, settling down into a comfortable position. Villanelle looks from her to the screen on the headrest and back again. She leans forward and rummages through the designer duffle pushed under the seat in front of her. She lifts up a pair of earbuds. “Do you want to watch a movie?” She raises them higher for emphasis, jangling them like keys. </p><p>Caught off guard, Eve swallows fast. It’s another one of those grey lines they’ve drawn, where the game ends, and something else begins. The same something else she felt in the moments after their kiss on that rainy afternoon bus. The inexplicable draw between them that transcends lust and obsession, edging further into a territory Eve isn’t ready to move to yet, even though she’s a frequent visitor. </p><p>So, she shakes her head no and ignores the flash of sadness across Villanelle’s face, instead focusing on the cold cup of coffee in front of her. The blonde plugs the earbuds into both ears, pressing buttons on the remote, already transfixed. Eve observes her out of the corner of her eye as she knocks back the bitter drink. She notes its quiet, for once. The comfortable silence she values so much settles right in their empty middle seat.  </p><p>The rest of the flight is like this, for the most part. The next time the beverage cart arrives, Villanelle makes it a point to order Eve a more “interesting” one, deciding on cranberry juice. When she inquires why cranberry juice is interesting, Villanelle gives her a disappointed sigh. “Oh, Eve,” she says, taking a swig of her second apple juice. </p><p>She will admit there’s something nostalgic about drinking juice on a plane. It reminds her of when she would fly from Connecticut to England to visit her father over the summer, after her parents’ divorce. Fifteen and not used to that much agency, she’d order sugary drinks the whole flight, the sweet taste amplified in the high altitude. It would linger on her lips even after they touched the ground. </p><p>She rolls the cranberry around in her mouth, letting it sour her taste buds, savoring the memory. She misses her dad, even though she never talks about it. She misses his bright smile as they would ride those obnoxious red tour buses around London. He insisted on it every visit. She misses his love of old buildings and how he would always have something to add once the tour guide finished speaking. She misses being a little girl, holding her father’s hand, as he directed her where to go next. Her life has become a directionless void. If she dwells on it too long, it starts to really upset her. Everything she’s known, loved, enjoyed, hated, sucked into a black hole. She loves to imagine Villanelle standing at the end of it, hungry, with the same grin she spotted across the Berlin dancefloor before she stabbed her best friend in the chests “upwards of 25 times,” according to the coroner. She loves to imagine it, but it’s wrong. Deep down, she knows the only one standing on the other side of that void is herself. </p><p>Then, she’s opening her eyes to the sound of the plane landing, having not even realized she’d fallen asleep. <em> Perhaps, this is getting old </em>, she remarks humorlessly to herself. </p><p>Villanelle is already tossing her stuff together, eager to escape the cramped space they’ve shared for the past 14 hours. She glances over at Eve, her face soft. “Ready, old lady?” </p><p>Sometimes she thinks Villanelle can read her mind, and it’s unsettling. </p><p>“I hope so,” Eve answers, surprisingly honest in more ways than one. </p><p>
  <em> When I try and think of my future, I just see your face, over and over again.  </em>
</p><p>She watches Villanelle push a loose blonde strand off her forehead as she secures her items in her carry-on. Right now, she looks like any other passenger, exhausted and ready to disembark. Eve loves watching these mundane moments, when she is an ordinary person, just like her. It makes the directionless void a little less scary, like maybe they can both be there, playing their game, distracting each other as they tumble in. </p><p>It’s why she finds herself reaching for Villanelle’s hand as they wait in line to exit the aircraft. The other woman tenses, eyes trained ahead, but she doesn’t move away. Slowly, Eve hooks her pinkie in her own, and their hands kind of just hang there, connected. Not all the way but almost. Traversing the Havana airport, they remain in the same position, even when they get in an argument over where their driver is picking them up. Eve hopes she’s ready, but, she guesses, one can’t be ready until they start. </p><p>They make their way through the maze of guide signs to baggage claim, where Villanelle looks physically pained with the effort of not climbing onto the carousel. </p><p>“Don’t you fly all the time? For...work?” Eve wonders aloud, noticing her face.</p><p>“Never checked a bag,” She admits, watching suitcase after suitcase spit out from behind the plastic flaps. “There!” Villanelle is the one who pulls her hand away first, reaching for the one nondescript black bag that they checked. Eve contemplates how pitifully small it looks in Villanelle’s hands, how little they have to start a new life. She clenches her jaw, hard, swallowing away tears as Villanelle gathers up their luggage. </p><p>“Hey,” Villanelle says softly, nudging her with her shoulder. The low timbre of her voice is unexpectedly soothing. “There’s our ride.” </p><p>A tall, stocky man in a suit and tie holds a placard that reads “MICHAELS” in neat lettering. He cracks a tight smile when Eve gives a halfhearted wave with her free hand. </p><p>“Señora Julie Michaels, Señora Angela Michaels,” The man greets them in heavily accented English with a practiced nod. Villanelle and Eve exchange wary glances before dipping their heads in return. </p><p>“Julio sent you?” Eve asks, slightly cautious. He cocks his head.</p><p>“Let us discuss in the car.” The tall man leads them out of baggage claim to a sleek black SUV, idling in the pickup lane. “May I?” He gestures to their suitcases and pops the trunk. Villanelle hands the bags in her custody over without batting an eye. Eve, though suspicious, follows her lead. She dislikes the layer of cynicism her life has been drenched in and the newfound mistrust for the most benign of circumstances. How many times has she happily handed her bag to an attendant? Handed over her passport without the terror of wrongdoing nipping at her heels? </p><p>This new world feels awfully lonely. Eve feels an almost overpowering urge to reach for Villanelle’s hand again, but the blonde has already climbed into the backseat. Eve does the same. Within a minute, they are moving, being driven in an unmarked car by an unnamed man to an unstated location. Again, Villanelle appears unfazed. There is an uncomfortable stretch of silence.</p><p>Eve starts, “So—”</p><p>“I am Tajo Santana,” The man interrupts as though he had been waiting for someone to try to speak. “I am honored to be taking you newlyweds to your resort, <em> El Atardecer </em>. I understand you may be in need of work. There is a particular bartending contract open for which Señora Julie’s skills may be particularly relevant.” He passes back a business card while keeping his eyes on the road. Villanelle takes it between her fingers.</p><p>DOCE NOCHES</p><p>cocktail lounge</p><p>Julio Alvarez, owner</p><p>“Bartending contract...” Villanelle murmurs, knitting her eyebrows in deep thought. Something clears behind her eyes and they widen. “Wait—”</p><p>“Honeymoons are not free, señora,” Tajo says smoothly. “I’m sure you understand.”</p><p>“How long until we can meet with Julio?” Eve interjects, irritated.</p><p>“I have been told Señor Alvarez has intentions to call you once you have settled in your hotel room this evening. He is most excited to hear how your flight went.” </p><p>“Hotel room?” Villanelle prompts. </p><p>“It has been arranged. Think of it as an advance.”</p><p>“And the job?”</p><p>“Easier than someone of your background might be accustomed to,” He says easily, making a turn onto a more rural road.</p><p>“Angela and I have been trying to get out of the bartending business.”</p><p>“Consider this a retirement job. To keep you entertained.” </p><p>“I am not comfortable with this employer—”</p><p>“It is not the same employer. They are...cousins. Estranged.”</p><p>Villanelle looks like she is about to raise another objection, but Tajo gestures out the windshield and they are greeted with the sight of the main resort building, imposing and ringed with palm trees. It is clean and well-kept despite its apparent age—the neoclassical building appears to be at well over one hundred years old. Villanelle whistles appreciatively. </p><p>Tajo pulls up to the driveway and shifts the car into park, opening the doors for them and heaving their luggage from the trunk. </p><p>“You will find your room keys at the front desk. Julio sends his regards and suggests you enjoy your stay.” The man gives another restrained nod before clamoring back into the vehicle and driving away, leaving Villanelle and Eve standing bemusedly at the curb of the resort. </p><p>“I still feel like we know nothing,” Eve finally says, voice heavy with the exhaustion of travel and frustration of the past several days. </p><p>“It is a feeling you may as well get used to,” Villanelle sighs, then gathers up their bags. “We will just have to live day by day. Come on. Let us check in.”</p><p>...</p><p>When the desk attendant informs them that they had been booked into one of the resorts finest suites, Eve does not know what to expect. When she and Niko had traveled, they always preferred to budget wisely, staying in an affordable room in a mid-range hotel. The extravagance that Villanelle is accustomed to is deeply unfamiliar to Eve. </p><p>The hotel room is more of a small apartment. It’s definitely bigger than her New Malden residence and its sorry excuse for a bedroom. There’s a kitchenette close to the door complete with a small stove, fridge, sink, and dishwasher, a luxury Eve had missed since moving out of her house a few months ago. The kitchenette has a small bar area, beyond which is an open living room that holds the largest television she has ever seen. Off from the living is the master bedroom and bath. A towel folded into a swan adorns the single king-sized bed and its tropical flower covered sheets. </p><p>Eve runs her hands across the blankets, marveling at the softness of the material, while Villanelle shoots straight past her for the bathroom, immediately turning on the faucets and shower. “Eve!” she calls over the roar of running water. “The pressure is fantastic. Come look.”</p><p>Eve follows the sound of her voice into a beautifully ceramic-tiled bathroom. Her jaw drops as she observes the his and hers sinks, bath with colored steps leading up to it, and the shower—is that? </p><p>Waving from inside, Villanelle sits on a built-in shower seat. A shower with a seat in it. Eve knew they existed but never thought she’d have the privilege of using it. Villanelle lounges back. “This is what I meant when I said ‘I’m expensive,’” she clarifies, closing her eyes.  “I like your friend, Juan.”</p><p>“Julio,” Eve corrects on impulse. </p><p>“That’s what I said: Rogelio.”</p><p>Too amazed by the quality of their suite to argue, she turns the faucet to examine the so-called fantastic water pressure. Sure enough, it feels like a fire hydrant exploding on the palm of her hand. A fantasy of her, a bottle of wine, and the shower seat floats through her mind, and her mouth starts watering. </p><p>Villanelle emerges from the glass shower, disappointed. “No bidet,” she remarks sadly with a passing glance to the single toilet. </p><p>She barks out a laugh. “All of this, and you’re disappointed about a bidet.” It’s more of a statement of disbelief than a question, but Villanelle answers her anyway.</p><p>“Feminine hygiene is very important to me, Eve.” Sauntering out of the bathroom, she lays with her back flat on the bed. “I like to clean up down there every once in awhile.” </p><p>The comment doesn’t warrant a response. She follows her out of the bathroom, sitting on the edge of the mattress. It becomes clear to her in this moment that there is only one bed in the suite. This past day has been her teetering on a seesaw of commitment, judging whether or not she’s ready for the inevitable. Their legs are nearly touching as Eve starts to lower herself next to Villanelle. Maybe she should stop questioning. Maybe it’s time to make a decision. Her head is about to touch the comforter when images of them on a similar bed in a modern Parisian apartment consume her vision. A soft promise of a truce. The feeling of a knife as it slides into human flesh. The blood. So much blood. </p><p>She abruptly stands, wiping her hands on the front of her jeans like the fabric would scrub off the imaginary red that stains them, her decision made. Villanelle sits up too, regarding her with the calculated curiosity Eve had first noticed in the hospital bathroom. The mask of bravado she wears fades into something serious and mature. </p><p>“I’ll take the couch,” she offers.</p><p>Eve blinks. It’s another surprise consideration. She half-expected to have to fight the other woman on their sleeping arrangements, and she’d rather die than explain herself. “No…” she starts because it would be rude to let her take the couch without, at least, pretending to want it instead. </p><p>Shaking her head, Villanelle rises from her spot. “Eve,” she says and places a hand on Eve’s wrist, a gesture somehow more intimate than anything they’ve done so far. Gaze initially locked on her shoes, Eve is forced to meet Villanelle’s eyes, so bright and earnest she wants to look away again. She thinks the assassin is going to continue her sentence, but she doesn’t, letting Eve’s name hang in the tense air between them. The expression on her face is communicative enough, and she is now positive Villanelle can, in fact, read her mind. After a beat, she pulls her hand away, heading to set up her things. From the bedroom, Eve watches her, unsure what to do next.</p><p>Luckily, the phone rings and spares her from reflection. She zooms to the nightstand, eager to think about anything else. </p><p>“<em> Calling for Mrs. Angela and Julie Michaels </em>,” a familiar voice croons over the receiver. </p><p>Eve sighs in relief. “Julio, thank god.” She checks on Villanelle, who is currently flipping through the hundreds of channels offered to them according to a very enthusiastic pamphlet on the coffee table.</p><p>“<em>¿Asere qué bola?</em> <em>And how was your flight</em>?” he asks, “<em>Was Tajo to your liking? He can be a bit vague. Good quality for a bodyguard. Bad for a briefing</em>.” He laughs heartily. He has the kind of laugh that’s so jovial it makes everyone join in. She has fond memories of driving between safehouses, joking around for the whole ride there. </p><p>“Both were fine. Thank you for setting us up like this. I mean it’s… quite something" she breathes out as she looks out the bedroom window to their ocean view. “What’s the catch?”</p><p>“<em> Ah, there’s the woman I met in London all those years ago, </em> ” Julio chuckles again. “ <em> You set me up with the best then. I’m only returning the favor, Ms. Michaels. No catch.” </em> </p><p>Eve snorts disbelievingly into the phone. “There’s always a catch.” </p><p>“<em> Fine, fine, </em> “ he admits lightly. “ <em> You caught me. There’s a small catch </em> .” He pauses. “ <em> Did Tajo mention the bartending position </em>?” </p><p>“He did,” Eve grits through her teeth, not particularly enthused by the implications of employment. </p><p>“<em> Oh, don’t be like that. It’s… insurance until I get your friends off your back. Just information. Nothing crazy. I scratch your back, you scratch mine. </em> ” She can visualize his smile, even over the phone, like Villanelle’s when she’s playing a role, sincere until it doesn’t reach their eyes. “ <em> All your Julie has to do is a little listening. The bar serves quite the cast of characters, just have her keep an eye on them.” </em>  </p><p>“But what about when I—”</p><p>He sighs. “<em> Look, the friends you asked me to dispose of? They cost a hefty price. More than I owe you, and I have important bills to pay. </em> ” Suddenly perking up, he exclaims, “ <em> Oh! Oh! It’s like when college students do the, como se dice, ‘work-study. </em>’” From his end, there’s a sudden commotion. A loud bang and the sound of people shouting. </p><p>“Julio?” Eve calls after he doesn’t continue.</p><p>“<em> Prepara el carro, </em> ” he growls to another man pestering him in Spanish before returning to their conversation. “ <em> Ms. Michaels, I am so sorry, but I have certain business to attend to right now. </em> ” Another crash. “ <em> Have your wife start her position tomorrow. I will meet you in two weeks to discuss the next steps, yes? For now, enjoy your honeymoon </em>.” More shouting in rapid fire Spanish. </p><p>“Julio—wait!” But he’s already hung up. The dial tone’s monotonous beep mocks her as she drops the phone cord dejectedly. Placing the receiver back down, Eve drags herself back to the living room to relay Julio’s message to Villanelle.</p><p>The assassin rests on the couch like a cat in the middle of her afternoon nap. When Eve approaches, she stretches comically, muting the telenovela she was watching. </p><p>“So?” She asks, helping herself to a handful of candy she must have scavenged from the minibar. </p><p>Eve bites her lip. “You start bartending tomorrow. Julio will meet us in two weeks.” </p><p>“Oh,” Villanelle says then shrugs. “Okay.” She returns to her program, unfazed, popping more candy into her mouth.</p><p>Slightly outraged, Eve tears the remote from her, causing the TV to turn off and several jelly beans to fly across the room. Villanelle is frozen in her position, hand still mid-air as if occupied with an imaginary remote control. </p><p>“That was aggressive,” she comments, pursing her lip in mock offense.   </p><p>Eve throws her arms in the air. “How can you be so <em> fucking </em> calm?” First, the Twelve is trying to kill her. Then, Carolyn and MI6. And recently, the Twelve again. Now, she’s going to be aiding and abetting a mystery organization by pimping an assassin out to bartend at the cocktail lounge. “We don’t have any idea what’s going on. ” She feels like she’s on the verge of tumbling into panic attack territory as the weight of the past year’s events comes crushing down on her.  </p><p>“We’re so <em> fucked </em> ,” she groans, pacing back and forth and running her hands through her hair. “This was so <em> stupid </em>.” </p><p>Villanelle observes her from the couch. “This was our only option,” she insists. “Our best option.”</p><p>She slows her pacing, turning toward the blonde, whose eyes are large and earnest. “Our best option,” Eve repeats, knowing she’s right.</p><p>“We are at a beautiful resort. You have a king bed to yourself. I have a new job. In two weeks, we will know more. I see no problems.” </p><p>The reassurance is comforting, and Eve rubs her temples, finally regaining her composure. “I’m sorry I’m…” She trails off, not really sure what she is. </p><p>Villanelle waves her away. “I know,” she says, and Eve doesn’t question her. She stands, grabbing a few of the pamphlets on the coffee table. “Here, let’s order some food, get some rest. Worry about tomorrow tomorrow, okay?” </p><p>“Okay,” Eve nods. “But first I’m using that shower.” She points her head to the enticing shower seat she can spot from the open bathroom door. </p><p>She laughs. “That is good with me.” </p><p>As she heads to the shower, Villanelle calls once more. “Remember to enjoy it, Eve!” With the fantastic water pressure massaging into her back in her shower-seated position, Eve closes her eyes, relishing in the feeling and relaxed for the first time in ages. After all the shit she’s crawled through since that fateful bathroom meeting, enjoying herself isn’t the worst thing in the world.</p><p>...</p><p>Over the next week, Villanelle and Eve settle into a routine. Having finally ditched the jet lag, Villanelle begins getting up earlier to exercise; oftentimes, Eve awakens around eight, only to see that the couch where Villanelle slept is already empty. She brews a pot of coffee in the kitchenette, then sits down in one of the armchairs with a Cuban newspaper they were having delivered. She spends the time waiting for Villanelle to get back from her run and shower attempting to translate the columns, word by word working through the front page in her own effort to learn Spanish. When Villanelle emerges from the shower, blonde hair twisted up into a white hotel towel, she reads over whatever Eve had attempted to translate out loud. They become comfortable with the unfinished versions of one another—seeing the other in pajamas, with bedhead, the bleary remnants of last night’s makeup. It shocks Eve how quickly they settle in.</p><p>It is an interesting kind of domesticity, one founded on hesitancy and unspoken premises. Eve learns Villanelle likes her coffee with cream, but no sugar. Villanelle helps Eve learn Spanish and is a surprisingly patient teacher. Every night, when Villanelle goes to work at her “bartending” gig, Eve finds herself sitting in a room that is uncomfortably lonely and sorely unfamiliar. </p><p>Those nights are miserable nights. She watches Cuban telenovelas on the suite’s TV, nursing room-serviced gin and tonics until her eyes begin to droop. At that point, she tucks under the covers in her too-empty king bed, begging herself to fall asleep as her mind races through images of London, Poland, Russia, Rome. Axes and guns and shoes on ribcages. Knives and bridges and chickens and buses. Pitchforks, hospital beds, scars. She has yet to see Villanelle’s scar. She’s glimpsed her in varying degrees of nakedness before—the expanse of her back, or bare legs, or collarbones exposed above a wraparound towel—but, whether by design or not, Eve has never seen the scar she tore into Villanelle’s body.</p><p>Sometimes it is all she can think about. Imagining where exactly the knife had split her skin. How the wound had healed, if Villanelle scarred pink or pale. Was it raised or sunken? A knot or a line? Eve mulls this over, night after night, lying awake in her bed until she hears the hotel door click open after Villanelle’s shift has ended. It is only then that she falls into grateful unconsciousness.</p><p>Their days pass differently, however. One morning, after enjoying a colorful breakfast at a resort cafe, Villanelle and Eve walk through the part of the resort built to mimic a vibrant main street shopping district. The end result is something unnervingly homogenous: where every shop in the strip, though constructed to appear unique, occupies identically sized plots of land and was constructed of the same materials, perhaps varying in the color of their sun-faded paint. Eve knows Villanelle loves shopping, though, and Villanelle knows Eve likes to explore outside of the hotel room where she remains locked up like a prisoner. So they each swallow their complaints and find themselves wandering through the storefronts.</p><p>Eve is muttering something to herself as she shuffles through her purse when she notices that Villanelle has stopped walking. She peers into a store window, transfixed.</p><p>“What are you looking at?” Eve asks. Villanelle has her head cocked slightly, and she stares at a swimsuit.</p><p>“We are at a resort,” Villanelle says suddenly, turning to face Eve. “We are at a resort in Cuba, and we have not been to the beach.”</p><p>“I know, I told you,” Eve says impatiently, “I didn’t remember to bring a swimsuit when we hightailed it out of London.”</p><p>“We are at a <em> resort </em>,” Villanelle deadpans, gesturing all around them. “There are shops on every corner.” </p><p>Eve chuckles. “Yeah, marked up to hell! I’ve never spent $200 on a swimsuit in my life.” </p><p>Villanelle does not appear amused. “<em> This </em> is your life,” She says. “We have money. You know we have money. Try it on, and...” She drops her gaze, almost bashful. “Come to the beach with me?” </p><p>Eve cinches her eyebrows, struggling to come up with a reason not to. She admits to herself—yes, maybe, she’s been avoiding doing things with Villanelle. Maybe every time Villanelle has cautiously suggested one of the resort activities (even the ones that weren’t couples-oriented) she’s dismissed it, materializing excuses from thin air. And now Villanelle has asked her to the beach with her clutching a purse full of enough money to buy twenty swimsuits and wearing the expression of a lost puppy dog. </p><p>What is Eve fighting it for?</p><p>“Okay,” She agrees. “We’ll need sunscreen, too,” Eve adds, as Villanelle tries not to look too excited. </p><p>“Right,” Villanelle affirms, rolling the R and biting her cheek to keep herself from grinning. </p><p>A little over an hour later, they find themselves on a powder-white beach, mostly unoccupied by other resort customers. In addition to the swimsuit, they have purchased sunscreen (the fancy non-comedogenic kind that Villanelle insisted on), two (matching) beach towels, and an umbrella. Eve drops their things unceremoniously. Villanelle whines about the sand getting into everything, to which point Eve reminds her that they are on a beach. </p><p>They shake out the towels and lay them down next to one another. Close enough that their hands could conceivably touch between them, but far enough that they don’t have to. </p><p>They change into their swimsuits in the stalls at the rear of the beach. Eve emerges first. Standing in the full glare of the noontime sun, she feels both self-conscious and exposed. She hasn’t been to a beach in years—Niko didn’t like them, and she didn’t mind not going—and certainly never would have bought a suit like this. The garment is a classy black one-piece with a low-cut V that begins at Eve’s sternum. There are cutouts at her sides, and the suit leaves most of her back exposed. The breeze nips lightly at her skin, reminding Eve just how bare her thighs, chest, and shoulders are. </p><p>Moments before the partial nudity becomes near-unbearable, Villanelle emerges from the changing stall. Eve’s breath catches in her throat. </p><p>She is wearing a simple, low-slung bikini top, which—and Eve hates herself for thinking this—cradles her tits <em> perfectly </em>. Her skin, already gently bronzed from a week in the Carribean sun, seems to glow with its own sunlight. The scar Eve carved into her sternum, standing out in a thin white line. Eve pulls her eyes away as Villanelle steps towards her with a fluid self-assuredness that a piece of the older woman envies. </p><p>“You look nice,” They say simultaneously. A beat. Then, somehow, they find themselves laughing, the tension broken under the warmth of the sun and sky. There is a sudden gentleness they’ve been struggling to find with one another since that night on the bridge. It’s nice. </p><p>They walk back to the towels, where Villanelle picks up the sunscreen. </p><p>“Time to lather up,” She winks, then hands her the bottle. Eve squirts a dollop of the cream into her hand, then works it into her legs, arms, chest; when she reaches for her back, she falters. Her bad shoulder. Despite all the physical therapy, she never regained full mobility on her left side, and she surely cannot reach her back to put on sunscreen now. </p><p>Villanelle isn’t looking—she seems to be occupied with attempting to put up the umbrella, which is refusing most of her efforts to do so. The sight makes Eve smile. Again. She doesn’t suppress it this time. </p><p>“Villanelle?” Eve says, hands still full of lotion. The blonde looks up. “Could you sunscreen my, uh, back?” Her voice is open, honest. Villanelle’s face is indiscernible, but she stands anyway.</p><p>“Here,” Villanelle says, “Give me your hands.” She scrapes the remaining cream out of them gently, not wanting to waste the $50-a-bottle product, and begins to rub the product into Eve’s back. She blends the sunscreen in gently, picking up Eve’s swimsuit strap to slide the cream underneath. Villanelle’s hand trails up to her neck and linger there for a moment, fingers long enough to wrap slightly around. Eve finds herself waiting for a squeeze that never comes. A moment, Villanelle’s palm moves to her shoulder.</p><p>Eve feels the hand still on her back, just at the edge of her scar. Her pulse races and she is sure that the blonde can feel it through her skin. </p><p>“Villanelle—” She starts, ragged.</p><p>“It is important to use this kind of sunscreen so that your pores don’t clog,” Villanelle interrupts loudly, resuming her motions until Eve’s shoulders and back are shimmering. </p><p>“There,” She says, her voice rough. “All done up.”</p><p>“All done up,” Eve agrees, falling back onto her towel, secretly wishing she could do away with it everything and sink into the sand, never to be seen again. </p><p>…</p><p>It’s not until after their beach day of boundary testing that Eve visits Villanelle at her new bartending gig. </p><p>She’s surprised to find, despite having their borders closed to multiple countries until recently, Cuba has a booming tourism industry. Whenever she ventures out of the safety of their suite, the hallways are bustling with resort-goers and hotel staff alike, her impression based off of going to get ice alone. On the eleventh day of their stay, she watches a repeat of the telenovela she’s been following for the past week and a half. Although she doesn’t understand the language at all, she’s invested in the outcome of Louisa and André’s relationship. The concept of a repeat infuriates her. For eleven straight days, she’s watched a new episode every day at 3:00 pm, and today they decide to air the Monday episode where André strangles Louisa’s dance instructor again? Purely to sabotage her, she assumes. Her entire life is a conspiracy, why not gear her TV programming to it as well. </p><p>To put it simply, she’s jealous Villanelle always gets to have the cool roles. She’s the killer hairdresser, perfume technician, spice deliverer. The minute Eve gets involved she has to sit in a hotel room for hours upon hours watching telenovelas to cure her incessant boredom. As she watches André grip Silvestro’s throat with leather gloved hands for the second time that week, it occurs to her she could easily find a new distraction. Drinking, which she’s been doing, but, instead of alone in the room, at Villanelle’s bar. She’s amazed she hasn’t thought of it before. </p><p>The reason for her epiphany may have been derived from the canned rosé she had downed just seconds ago, but she prefers not to dwell on such menial coincidences. It’s not alcoholism if there’s nothing better to do. </p><p>So, in search of a thrill, she wanders her way to the beachfront cocktail lounge owned by the infamous Julio Alvarez. There are several of the same type lining the turquoise water, each with their own brand of neon lighting and palm trees. Eve can spot where Villanelle is in an instant, dramatically surrounded by a bunch of tiki torches. </p><p>“Hey stranger,” Eve murmurs as she slides into the bar stool directly in front of the assassin. Villanelle wipes down a pint glass and regards her carefully. </p><p>“Hey,” she replies, putting the dry glass under the counter, the smirk tugging at the edge of her lips, a clear invitation to play. An invitation clear enough to force Eve to question its clarity. They never engage in such absolutes. </p><p>Eve shifts in her chair, losing the confidence she brought with her. “Busy night?” She asks, glancing at the bar, empty of any patrons, save for a woman with a shaved head several seats down from her. The woman has a commandeering presence, nursing a glass of scotch, swirling the liquid slow around the rim. As Eve peers closer, suddenly drawn in, she notices she only has one arm under her sleek blazer. The woman, who she now holds enormous respect for, stiffens and cocks her head to the side sharply, like the eyes on her are an irritating group of gnats. Embarrassed by her own nosiness, Eve turns back to the bartender at hand. </p><p>Villanelle chuckles, ignoring her momentary departure from their conversation, if she even cared at all. “No, it’s Tuesday, Eve,” she says, answering her earlier question and pouring a shot of gin. “Busy days are Thursday, Friday, Saturday.” She states it a-matter-of-factly, like a line rehearsed from her training. Pushing the small glass toward her, she grins. “Not everyone drinks every day, you know.”</p><p>“I know,” Eve says gruffly. She grabs the gin and tosses it into the back of her throat, not swallowing and letting the acidity of the alcohol drip down her throat. Her eyes squeeze shut upon instinct, but she basks in the burning of it.</p><p>In a blatant attempt to seduce her, Villanelle leans over the bar, tits fully on display under a thin black camisole. “Eve,” she whispers, loudly enough for it to be a scandal. “Are you drunk?” </p><p>Eve shakes her head, ignoring the heat buzzing at the tips of her ears. “No.” She raises her eyebrows to make a point. </p><p>Sneakily, Villanelle passes another shot in her direction. “Oo-kay,” she says, disbelieving.</p><p>To prove her wrong, she grabs this one too, a forceful arm knocking the glass into her mouth, while her stomach gurgles in defiance. She pushes the liquid down, ignoring the pain in her lower abdomen, knowing she will regret it in the morning.</p><p>“Then to what do I owe the pleasure of Angela Michaels’ presence?” </p><p>Leaning back from the bar counter, the uncomfortable plastic of the bar stool digs into her ass, forcing words out of her mouth. “I’m so bored,” she groans.</p><p>It is intended as a passing complaint, but nothing between them can be in passing. There’s always a weight to their exchanges, an undercurrent. It’s the same phrase Villanelle had uttered at the AA meeting during their time working together. The electricity pulsates up her arms, a shocking reminder of the mutual fascination binding them together. Eve doesn’t know her life before Villanelle, and she doesn’t know her life after. She only knows she is here, and Villanelle is looking at her with the same complicated yet soft expression that reminds Eve she is greater than anything she’s ever seen.</p><p>“I see,” she muses, polishing another glass with the swift swipe of her towel. Her body language is dismissive, but her eyes tell a different story, devilish glint clear in the orange light of the tiki torches. “Four minutes.”</p><p>“What?” Eve responds dumbly. </p><p>Villanelle hangs her head down, as if Eve should be smarter than this. “I get off in four minutes, but I suppose I could clock out early due to a lack of clientele.” She nods at the shaved head, one-armed, cool as fuck lady at the end of the bar, who is currently standing up from her seat, flipping through a wallet filled with bills, and placing a few down in front of her empty scotch glass. “Is that okay with you?” </p><p>The hesitance in her voice should raise alarm bells in Eve’s mind, but she’s about two drinks too deep to consider it. “Only if you chug that champagne.” </p><p>Villanelle glances at the bottle of champagne Eve points to on the bar shelf. “That one?” She asks, pointing as well. </p><p>Eve nods in reply, her gaze challenging. “Yes, that one.”</p><p>Villanelle pouts. “But, Eve, I could lose my job!” </p><p>“Since when do you care?”</p><p>“True,” she agrees, grabbing the bottle off the shelf. With her free hand, she types something on the bar computer system. The monitor dings, and then Eve’s senses are overwhelmed. The woody scent she applies to her wrists each morning close enough to suffocate her. A stray hand is placed delicately on the small of her back. Her voice, low and heavy, whispering, “Let’s get out of here.” </p><p>They end up walking the same strip of the resort they had on their day at the beach. At night, it is hauntingly vacant, despite the one or two storefronts still sporting their colorful neon signs, buzzing and blinking in the darkness. Far away speakers play a mumbled mariachi song, and it echoes throughout the empty street in a quiet melody. Eve stands in the middle, marveling in the barrenness of it all. It’s a ghost of itself, and she is not scared, but rather intrigued as to what things look like when they are stripped bare. </p><p>“Eve, I think I am drunk,” remarks Villanelle from behind her. She’s holding the champagne bottle above her head. “Please take this, I need to sit.” </p><p>Without giving her a second glance, she shoves the neck of the bottle into Eve’s arms and meanders to the curb, alcohol turning her regular saunter into a slight stumble. </p><p>Eve tests the bottle’s weight and realizes the other woman has only drank a little less than half. “Lightweight,” she calls after her, taking a swig herself. She notes champagne goes down much easier than gin, wondering why she doesn’t order it. Perhaps, she’s never thought she could be the woman who orders champagne, a role reserved for the young and rich, of which she is neither. However, there’s nothing stopping her now. She’s Angela Michaels, not Eve Polastri, and Angela Michaels loves champagne. </p><p>Taking a long pull of the drink, she follows the other woman to the spot she slumps at on the curb. The two swigs she indulged in are already causing blood to rush to her ears, her head swimming. </p><p>“Eve, I am drunk,” Villanelle repeats as if she’s surprised herself. </p><p>With a small laugh, Eve settles next to her. “I know,” she replies, “You’re a lightweight.” </p><p>“No,” she objects half-heartedly then sighs, gesturing toward the street in front of them. “I don’t do this often.” </p><p>Eve drinks from the bottle again, a couple of gulps, like she’s a teenager at prom working up the courage to do something reckless. A bit of the champagne spills from her lips, and she feels the heat of the assassin’s gaze following it down, burning holes in her skin. </p><p>Wiping her mouth, she chuckles to diffuse the tension building in her gut. “Don’t do what? Come to Cuba? Go on the run with the woman who has been trying to lock you up for a year?” </p><p>“No, Eve,” Villanelle says in a dumb voice. “I don’t drink. I’m an assassin. I must retain cognitive function at all times.” She rolls her shoulders. “Have to stay limber.”</p><p>“Mhm,” she punctuates, bumping their arms together. The touch sends more electricity up her spine. She thinks it's frying her brain. </p><p>The muffled mariachi band continues their soft song. Eve nods her head to the distant music, closing her eyes, mostly to distract from the loudness of Villanelle’s presence. Alcohol washing away the mask, her emotions are on full display, and Eve would rather not read them because she’s feeling pretty stupid right now. Unfortunately, they’re so blaring, Eve must spare a look in her direction, She is met with a quiet sadness she wasn’t expecting, the assassin’s eyes transfixed on the concrete road. </p><p>“Are you okay?” She asks, and she’s been wanting to since she left the dance hall, remembering the words they exchanged then. </p><p>
  <em> I’ve killed so many people.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I know.  </em>
</p><p>Villanelle looks at Eve, arms folded on top of her long legs. She considers Eve’s question carefully, eyes darting back and forth. Licking her lips, she answers. “I, uh, I went back to Russia. Konstantin found my family.” </p><p>“He did? I thought they were—“</p><p>“He found them,” she says, steely. “I killed them.” Sighing, she puts her gaze back on the street. “Families suck.” The streetlights reflect the water glazing over her hazel eyes, and Eve is definitely feeling stupid right now. </p><p>Her breath hitches when Eve touches the back of her neck, stroking the loose strands falling out of her work bun. The touch is so unexpected by the both of them, she almost pulls away herself. They stay there in silence, the mariachi music as score to their intimate moment, Eve running her fingers across Villanelle’s skin. </p><p>She doesn’t know who turns or who leans in first, deciding alcohol is the guilty party, and yet, before she can comprehend it, their lips are pressed together. It takes a second for them to realize, but, once they do, it quickly gets out of hand. </p><p>They’re tearing at each other in a messy collision of heat and hunger, very different from their chaste peck while tangled in a row of bus seats. It’s what Eve was scared it would be the first time they decided to cross this boundary. Intoxicating. </p><p>Villanelle nips at her bottom lip, and she tastes the salty iron of blood. Her nails claw at the bottom of her black camisole, desperate to feel the flesh underneath, to confirm this is real. The other woman’s arms are now on either side of her as they encroach further into the other’s space. She is being pushed down into the sidewalk, the concrete digs into her elbows, Villanelle’s mouth on her neck distracts from the pain. Their mouths reconnect, and she is on top of her, pinning her to the ground, in between her legs. </p><p>She’s fumbling for Eve’s jeans, pawing at the button. Unable to complete the task without looking, she pulls away to focus. Eve watches her, illuminated by the street lights, mariachi music flowing through the air, and viscerally becomes aware of who they are and what they’re doing. Fresh panic surges through her, erasing any effects the alcohol had induced. She scoots back, nearly tearing a hole into her jeans as they scrape on the pavement. Villanelle watches her, sitting on her knees, fingers suspended, face unreadable and dark. </p><p>“Sorry,” Eve mutters, clumsily rising from where she scooted. “Sorry, I can’t. I need to…” Not even turning to view the wreckage she leaves behind, she walks away. For once, Villanelle doesn’t go after her. </p><p>She returns to the hotel immediately, speeding her way through the also vacant lobby. When she gets into their room, she burrows into the covers of the large bed, hoping it may ease the terrible heavy feeling in her chest. The front door doesn’t click open until Eve’s been back for at least an hour. Through the slit of the bedroom doorway, she makes out Villanelle’s sunken form beelining to the couch, where it promptly begins snoring. She smiles then frowns, disturbed with herself. Their game is a game until it’s not a game, and she can never figure out which is which until it’s too late. </p><p>She killed her best friend. She tricked her into murdering a man. She shot her and left her for dead. </p><p>For months, Eve had left the game and built a new life for herself. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something. She had a job, visited Niko every Tuesday and Friday, and had even leased an apartment. She had been rehabilitated. </p><p>People go to rehab for addiction, but what do they do if it doesn’t work?</p><p>There’s no time to consider the answer. The door to the bedroom is already creaking open, the form previously snoring on the couch now making its way toward her. Pretending to be asleep, Eve shifts over to her side as Villanelle crawls under the sheets, movements heavy with exhaustion. She only looks over when she hears a sigh wrack the blonde’s body. The other woman is coiled in a ball, like a child who had a bad nightmare. </p><p>“Couch hurts my back,” she grunts into the pillow. Her words are slurred, and Eve can tell she got significantly more drunk after they left the curb. </p><p>A tug in her chest, guilt, yearning, or a combination of the two, leads to her next move. She reaches again for the nape of Villanelle’s neck, stroking the same spot, feeling the softness of her hair in between her fingers. She swears she feels her eyes open, sees them glowing in the darkness — a mountain lion caught in the dead of night. Seconds pass, and she closes them, her breath slowing as she drifts off to sleep. Eve moves her hand to her cheek where she feels the short puffs of air from the assassin’s mouth on her palm. Drawing her thumb across her high cheekbones, she stares at the sleeping Villanelle, wishing they could exist like this forever. </p><p>People go to rehab for their addictions, but what does she do if whatever this is isn’t one? </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>as always, check us out on tumblr. isabella is @theatrelesbabe and anna is @villanever. pester us to your heart’s content.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. game plan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Julio asks Villanelle and Eve for one last favor.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>hello hello hello! isabella here this week. anna and i finally finished this doozy of a chapter. turns out it's only feasible to post once a week if your sections arent 9k monsters. anyway, enjoy, thanks for your patience!</p><p>also anna here two days later but plugging the playlist i am makin for the fic :) </p><p>https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0TxFjHKUNxp57iTV3lYHtw?si=k5UB3tEmSJOqs5QnvUTHWw</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>She thinks the only time she’s gone on a real vacation was when she went to prison. She had no ties, no allegiances, no contracts. It was only her, and, at its bare bones, vacation is a break from life. There is no greater break from life than jail time. </p><p>Although her old job required a lot of travel, and she often indulged in life’s pleasures during her trips, her assassination assignments, no matter how luxurious, never provided the comfort of waking up not knowing what she was going to do that day and being okay with it. Sure, there was the constant threat of violence, the nearly-inedible food, the oppressive guards, and the horrid smell, but only prison has done that so far. Prison, and these past twelve days with Eve. </p><p>Or eleven, she should say, because on the twelfth day, she wakes up, and she is not okay with it. Her head feels like it did the morning after Nadia had dared her to drink an entire bucket of toilet wine brewed in the communal bathrooms. She has never been one to back away from a dare and was desperate to prove herself, so she chugged it, vomited everywhere, and came to in solitary with a splitting headache just like the one she is experiencing now. </p><p>It takes every ounce of her body’s effort to force open a single eyelid. The bright morning sunlight streams in from the windows and nearly blinds her. She shuts it again, loudly groaning and cursing Eve for not shutting the curtains. Leaning back, she expects to feel the hard cushions of the couch stab into her spinal cord but is pleasantly surprised that is not the case. In fact, if she didn’t know any better, she’d think she had died and awoken on a cloud, floating through heaven like the brilliant angel she is. </p><p>She finds, after finally peeling her eyes open, she is not in heaven. Somewhere better. The bed in their shared hotel suite. It’s soft and cozy, and Villanelle is glad she is alive to experience it. Eve would be absolutely miserable if she died anyway. She smiles to herself, imagining Eve crying over her coffin, wailing about her amazing tits and excellent kissing abilities. How she wishes she could have said all of these things to her in person, but she was too much of a coward. Then, as they lower her body into the grave, there’s a display of fireworks, bright enough to be seen from space. Normal funeral stuff.  </p><p>Speaking of Eve, Villanelle notes she is nowhere to be found. The shower seat and bathroom are unoccupied, and the door to the bedroom is open, showing the whole suite sans the curly-haired firecracker she calls a travel buddy. She rolls over to her side in a terrible attempt to stand up and look for her. The pain in her head is overwhelming, throbbing as she reaches for the nightstand to stable herself. </p><p>Her hand comes into contact with something cold. A fresh glass of water and a few pills littered out in front of it. There’s a napkin there too, Eve’s messy handwriting scrawled on top in one of the hotel’s blue souvenir pens. Her efforts to decode the chicken scratch are futile, and she wonders why Eve chose to be an MI5 agent and not a doctor. She is grateful for the pills, though, tossing them back and dry swallowing them greedily. </p><p>Upon waiting for the painkillers to kick in, she contemplates her current situation, trying to piece together last night’s events. She remembers Eve coming to the bar and daring her to steal a bottle of champagne, and, once again, she doesn’t back down from a dare, especially when Eve Polastri is challenger. They went for a stroll along the resort’s main strip in the middle of the night. She took a seat on the curb to steady herself and—</p><p>Oh, she remembers now. </p><p>Eve had kissed her. She had let Villanelle push her down into the curb, taste the blood on her lips, and then pushed her away, leaving her with a three quarters of the way empty champagne bottle and what she thinks is a broken heart. Afterwards, she stumbled to the indoor hotel bar and ordered two double vodka tonics. The bartender took one look at her, poured her a single vodka tonic and a glass of water, and sent her on her way. She doesn’t remember anything after that, except the couch being way more comfortable than usual, which makes sense as she stretches out on the king-sized bed. </p><p>“Eve Polastri, you are confusing,” she thinks aloud and takes a sip of the water the other woman had left out for her. She tries to read the napkin again, light worry pricking in her chest. Even if they are in a strange place, it’s not like her to just leave. </p><p>She’s debating the pros and cons of searching the entire hotel for her when the phone rings. It’s loud screech is so piercing, she nearly tosses it off the balcony. Regaining her composure, she picks it up with dainty fingers. </p><p>“Hello?” she answers in a posh British accent. </p><p>“<em> Hola </em> ,” responds the man on the other side of the call. “ <em> I am calling for Señora Angela Michaels. Is she there </em>?” </p><p>Someone calling for Eve? Perhaps it’s the shady Juan Alvarado or whoever she’s been blabbering about. The concept of knowing something Eve doesn’t is a pleasing one, so she continues the conversation instead of following her initial desire to hang up. </p><p>“No, sir, but her wife Julie is,” she says, playing along. </p><p>The man laughs good-naturedly, and she is positive he is the man who set them up in their current living quarters. His overt friendly tone is one with which she is very familiar because she has used it before. The voice of a con artist. </p><p>“<em> Julie! Wonderful to hear from you as well. How is your new position going?” </em> </p><p>“I like it.” An honest answer. It’s not the worst job she’s had to do and certainly beats the ditch the Twelve would have dumped her in by now had she stayed in Europe. </p><p>“<em> Bueno, bueno, </em> ” he responds. “ <em> I’m calling to invite you two to dinner at one of my restaurants tonight. It’s a great place, authentic Cuban cuisine. I acquired it a few years ago. It’s my pride and joy.” </em> </p><p>Villanelle toys with the phone cord, glancing around absentmindedly. “I don’t know, we might be busy.” </p><p>He laughs again. “<em> You’ll cancel all your plans for our vaca frita.” </em></p><p>“Vaca frita?” She asks, perking up. </p><p>“<em> Si, señora. I’ll send over Tajo at 6 to retrieve you ladies, okay? </em>” Although, the question at the end is not really a question, more of a demand. </p><p>Excited for the idea of seared and marinated beef and too hungover to be clever, she takes another sip of water with her free hand. “See you then,” she says coolly.  </p><p>“<em> Adios, Julie </em>.” The line clicks. </p><p>She places the phone back down onto the receiver, burying herself into the pillows. A greasy omelet from room service sounding awfully appealing to her in her current state. She lays there for a long while, weighing the brainpower required of talking to another human being. The conversation with Julio was so taxing, but she’s so hungry. </p><p>Luckily, before she is forced to decide, the door to their suite swings open, and a disgruntled Eve shuffles in carrying several napkin-covered plates. </p><p>“You’d think,” she growls as she puts them on the bar counter, “that they wouldn’t make it a big deal to bring stuff from the brunch buffet back to your room. But apparently, it’s an issue, and I had to get in a high-speed foot chase with the concierge.” Villanelle watches her take the napkins off each plate, unveiling delicious breakfast goodies. The smell wafts into the bedroom, and her mouth starts to water. She almost forgives Eve for her heartbreak and hangover. Almost. </p><p>Eve’s head pokes into the bedroom door. “Are you still asleep? Get up, it’s 12:30.” In this moment, she admires the curly-haired woman’s ability to completely ignore events that happened. She thinks they’ll maybe never get to discuss their peck on the bus and their heavy make out from last night, both on the top of the list of the many topics they need to talk about. Sometimes, she thinks about bringing it up herself but shirks the responsibility. Eve knows where she stands. </p><p>Sauntering to the kitchen, head feeling significantly better now that food is in her reach, she observes the feast in front of her, deciding to go for the bacon first. She shoves a piece in her mouth, watching Eve, who is hyper-focusing on tidying the coffee table. </p><p>“If I died, what would you do at my funeral?” She asks, genuinely curious. </p><p>Eve stops in her tracks, menus and pamphlets still in her hands. “What?”</p><p>“My funeral. If I died. Would you bring flowers? I love forget-me-nots. That would be nice.” </p><p>She rolls her eyes and continues her task at hand, ignoring the question like Villanelle figured she would. That’s fine. She’ll just keep imagining the crying over the coffin and fireworks show. </p><p>“Oh,” Villanelle says, after starting the short stack of chocolate chip pancakes. “Boss called. He invited us out to dinner at his fancy restaurant.” </p><p>This makes Eve stop again. She turns and faces Villanelle this time, examining her for any deceit. Villanelle looks back at her with a bored expression, stuffing another piece of pancake in her mouth. </p><p>“Julio called?” She asks blankly. </p><p>Villanelle really needs to get her out of the habit of asking so many questions. It’s exhausting to answer them. </p><p>“Yes,” she replies as she reaches for a Styrofoam cup of what she presumes is coffee. “He’s inviting us out to his fancy restaurant. Tonight. At six.” Wrinkling her nose at the burnt taste of her coffee with no sugar, only cream, she glances at Eve’s outfit of capris and a t-shirt. “We’ll need to find you something to wear.”</p><p>“I can figure out what to wear just fine,” snaps Eve, and she’s taken aback by the vitriol. She thinks, in this scenario, after what happened last night, she’s the one who deserves to be grumpy. Eve should be thanking her for remaining so collected about everything. </p><p>She raises her eyebrows. “Oo-kay.” </p><p>Eve goes back to tidying the remainder of the suite, and she fights the urge to remind her that housekeeping comes every day at one, so cleaning serves no purpose. However, upon observing the other woman’s jerky and swift movements, she determines Eve wouldn’t take to the reminder too well. If their game is going to be like this all day, she doesn’t want to stick around for it. </p><p>Once she finishes her coffee and munches on a bit of everything, she stands from the counter. “I’m going to go to the beach,” she states.</p><p>Eve shifts from where she wipes at a smudge on a window. “Don’t you have work?”</p><p>“I’m off today,” she answers. “I’m going to go to the beach.” She says it again with finality so Eve knows she isn’t invited. </p><p>“Have fun,” Eve responds blandly, still wiping. </p><p>Villanelle frowns, disappointed with the lack of response. Still, she should be nice, Eve is clearly going through it. She walks over to where the other woman crouches, placing a hesitant hand on her shoulder. Eve stiffens at the touch. </p><p>“Thank you for everything,” she says, soft, because she means it, even if she’s frustrated too. For once, she gets to be the bigger person. </p><p>Eve pulls her shoulder away. “You’re welcome.” </p><p>Ah, so that’s how this is going to be. Confusing. Their usual. Luckily, it’s her day off, and she doesn’t have time for it. The beach is calling to her, asking her to lay on its warm white sand and take a nap. </p><p>“Bye, Eve,” she mutters as she leaves, the door slamming shut behind her. </p><p>...</p><p>It’s a stony day in the Michaels hotel room once Villanelle gets back from the beach. Eve mostly watches her telenovelas in pointed silence as Villanelle takes an extraordinarily long shower, making use of several impulse-bought oils and scrubs and cleansers that she purchased during a bout of afternoon retail therapy. When she leaves the bathroom, she wonders if Eve will notice; after all, she is bathed head to toe in new scents. Villanelle <em> almost </em>believes she sees Eve twitch slightly as though to turn, but she doesn’t, and her eyes stay glued on the flatscreen. Bitterness is a strange emotion for Villanelle—she usually considers herself above it—but she just can’t get over how typical this is of Eve, to create a problem where there was none. </p><p>“It’s a fancy dinner,” Villanelle announces to the room, dressed impeccably and staring at Eve sprawled on the couch in a pair of cotton shorts. Eve ignores her then, but in twenty minutes, decidedly enough time that the decision to dress up could be rationalized as her own, she changes into a nicer outfit before returning to her outpost on the sofa. Villanelle doesn’t recognize it. She must have bought it while she was out at the beach. The thought that Eve might <em> actually </em>have listened to her, at least a little bit, is mildly satisfying.</p><p>Villanelle thinks six o’clock might never come until finally, <em> finally </em>a phone rings in their hotel room. Villanelle lunges for it, far more nimble than Eve, and yanks it to her ear, biting back a smirk. She knows that its absence will likely only irritate the older woman more. </p><p>“Hellloooooo,” Villanelle croons into the phone, avoiding eye contact with her surly roommate. </p><p><em> “Buenas noches, Señora Michaels. This is Tajo. I am here with your car.” </em> </p><p>“<em> Dahling </em>, Tajo is here with the car!” Villanelle affects a posh accent for maximum spiteful effect. “Are you ready to leave, dearest?” </p><p>Eve is practically already out the door, clutching at her purse with remarkable vitriol. </p><p>“Grab a room key,” She snaps over her shoulder, not caring to check if Villanelle follows as the heavy door slams shut behind her. </p><p>Tajo, who seems perfectly content with the awkward silence, does not make an effort to spark conversation during the half hour ride into urban Havana. Eve pretends to be absorbed with the charm of the colorful <em> almendrones </em>that pepper the streets. Villanelle, continuously shocked by Eve’s refusal to engage, almost stares at Eve for the entire car ride, arms crossed and legs spread in defiance. When they arrive at the restaurant, Tajo escorts them from the car to the curb where both women stand an uncomfortable distance apart before he drives off to find a place to park the vehicle. </p><p>They are left there a moment alone on the sidewalk. Villanelle clucks her tongue, shifting back and forth from heel to toe. The unease between them has gotten exponentially worse over the course of the day, which directly correlates, she thinks, to the amount of time Eve’s had to contemplate her actions. </p><p>Just as the silence is becoming unbearable, Villanelle opens her mouth to talk and is immediately interrupted by the appearance of a grinning, swaggering man on the sidewalk in front of them. </p><p>“Angela Michaels! Long time no see!” He laughs, leaning in to kiss her cheek. Eve instantly perks up, a warm smile blooming on her face as she reciprocates with a peck to his coppery skin. </p><p>“Julio!” Eve greets him like an old friend. Villanelle takes him in in an instant. His hair, effortlessly tousled, is coal black, and he wears a collared shirt with the top two buttons undone. No necktie. He is not young, but every aspect of his appearance is curated to allude to youth, belied by the creases in his sun-weathered face. </p><p>“And you must be Mrs. Julie Michaels?” Startled, Villanelle rapidly arranges her expression into something open and sociable. </p><p> </p><p>“The one and only,” She replies, winking gratuitously at Eve, who, to Villanelle’s shock, gamely plays along. Julio appears delighted by this dynamic, but something about the way his gaze lingers on Villanelle makes her wary, and her agreeable smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. </p><p>“Please, please. Come in,” He says, guiding them through the door of a brightly lit and crowded restaurant. The air is filled with the rich aroma of Cuban food, and the atmosphere bubbles with conversation. He leads them to the only empty table in the joint, a four top, in the corner and under a speaker. Villanelle regards the seating as an interestingly suitable location to have a public conversation where absolutely no one could overhear you.</p><p>“Tajo will be joining us shortly,” Julio says, handing out menus around the table himself. He resembles both a host and a guest, shifting between the roles effortlessly. </p><p>“It’s good to see you, Julio,” Eve says, seated back in her chair as though sizing him up. He leans in, enjoying the game. </p><p>“I have to be honest, I thought I’d seen the last of you in London,” He says, taking a sip of the water already present at the table. “But then, you were always full of surprises.”</p><p>“If only you knew,” Eve says, unable to resist a glance at Villanelle.</p><p>“Don’t I?” Julio cocks his head slightly, the gentle slant of a grin playing at the corners of his lips. </p><p>Villanelle, unsure as to why none of the attention was being directed her way at the moment, clears her throat. </p><p>“To what do we owe the pleasure?” She asks, staring down Julio with a syrup-sweet smile. </p><p>“Well, Angela had spoken so highly of you, Julie.”</p><p>“Is that so?” Villanelle says, mimicking the air of a heterosexual couple begrudgingly expressing affection for one another. “Well, you know how it can be, sometimes I think Angela here gets fed up with the old ball ‘n’ chain—” Eve kicks her under the table. Villanelle contains her surprise to a blink.</p><p>“Ah, but this is your honeymoon!” He waves it off, hailing a server with his free hand and ordering a round of drinks in rapid-fire Spanish before turning back to the table. “Speaking of, how <em> is </em> your honeymoon? Are you finding the hotel to be suitable?” </p><p>“It’s suitable,” Eve deadpans, folding her hands on top of the table. </p><p>“It’s <em> lovely </em>,” Villanelle says, reaching one of her hands to clasp Eve’s. She squeezes gently, the picture of affection. “We are appreciative of the job you were able to get for me,” She says carefully, gently steering the conversation to more pressing matters. </p><p>“Ah, yes.” Julio narrows his eyes ever-so-slightly. “You have been most helpful.” Eve and Villanelle both cross their arms, waiting for him to go on. He seems to decide that he won’t continue unprompted. Villanelle sighs.</p><p>“What is it we need to do for you now?”</p><p>“I want to know what you know about me.” Julio smiles and adjusts his collar. Eve looks taken aback.</p><p>“That’s it?” She asks, scoffing. </p><p>“Well...no,” Julio admits, scratching his head. “But it’s not unrelated.”</p><p>“Fine.” The server arrives with four mojitos. Eve takes a drink and makes sure he’s out of earshot before continuing. “Right. So you’re Julio Alvarez. Former government honcho, worked the UK desk. Never went very far, got out of the public sector a year or two back.” Eve pauses. “There were always....rumors. About your involvement in certain—” She glances around. “Drug-smuggling organizations. That’s how I knew you. MI5 was responsible for your protection while you were in the country.”</p><p>Julio nods gamely, seeming to agree with what she’s saying. “Anything else?” Eve hesitates.</p><p>“From what I can put together, you were formerly connected with the Twelve.” </p><p>Julio grins, then taps his nose, chuckling. Eve and Villanelle exchange alarmed glances.</p><p>“Well done, very well done,” He grins, impressed. “Keyword ‘formerly’. We are separated now. Friendly. Like cousins,” He adds helpfully, and Villanelle recognizes it as Tajo’s comparison from the first ride to the hotel. Just as she’s thinking of this, Tajo appears behind Julio’s shoulder, still and silent in the bustle of the restaurant. </p><p>“Ah! Tajo! Glad you could join us,” He slaps the empty chair. “Please, sit.” Tajo lowers himself into the seat, nodding at the women and reaching over to give Julio’s hand a gentle squeeze. Julio’s face softens imperceptibly, the mask of bravado slipping just barely. </p><p>“I’m glad you could join us,” He repeats, voice roughened in a way that Villanelle recognizes.</p><p>Villanelle’s eyes widen appreciatively as Tajo lifts Julio’s hand to his mouth, beard-coarsened face brushing his knuckles gently. She finds herself relaxing, both of the frustratingly mysterious men made slightly more sympathetic. With a glance to Eve, Villanelle thinks she conceals her surprise well. Or that perhaps she already knew.</p><p>“What is it that you need us to do?” Villanelle asks again, her tone unexpectedly patient. Julio breaks Tajo’s gaze and turns back to the women. </p><p>“It’s exciting. Fun.” Julio shrugs, knocking back a swallow of mojito. “More spy work. Like James Bond.” Villanelle raises an eyebrow. Eve scoffs again.</p><p>“Recently I...ran into some trouble. With our dear old mutual <em> amigos </em>,” Julio admits, leaning forward. Something flits across Tajo’s face that Villanelle can’t completely recognize. It unsettles her. “As you may know, it is—well—not so good to be on their bad side.” Julio directs a pointed glance at Villanelle, and Eve sits up straighter, expression darkening. Almost...protective? Villanelle doesn’t want to think so.</p><p>“Anyway, in this business, it’s all about making yourself important again. Indisposable. You are doing that for me,” He continues. “One last job, and your debt is paid.” </p><p>Tajo clears his throat, and Eve and Villanelle both turn to him in surprise. “Steal a key. It opens a Twelve storage unit on the other side of town.” He does not look at Julio as he says this. Villanelle sets her jaw.</p><p>“My background does not qualify me to be a petty thief.” Her lip curls.</p><p>Julio raises his eyebrows, still amicable. “Your background doesn’t qualify you for much of anything without my help.” There is a moment of tension. A deadlocked silence at the table.</p><p>“We’ll do it.” Eve finally says, shooting Villanelle a look she reads as <em> Just wait. Trust me. </em></p><p>“There will be a two associates at <em> Doce Noches </em> tomorrow. <em> Cuatro y media de la tarde </em>,” Tajo explains, producing a photo from his jacket and sliding it across the table. “The key will be on this person,” He says, pointing to a skinny black man at the center of the picture. </p><p>“Have some fun with it,” Julio smiles. Eve bites her lip, and Villanelle thinks—in pure disbelief—that she appears secretly thrilled. She sits up, brimming with some kind of self-importance that the blonde recognizes. She is reminded, viscerally, of a dinner table in London. A tupperware full of shepherd’s pie. Eve, hair dripping wet, so proud of herself when she reveals Villanelle’s name: <em> Oksana.  </em></p><p>She hasn’t seen this Eve in awhile. Frankly, it’s hot. And concerning. </p><p>“You will be very useful,” Julio says, drinking from his glass. Eve takes a competitively larger gulp of cocktail. </p><p>“Yes,” Eve says, something fascinating and intelligent playing at the corners of her lips. “Yes, I think so too.”</p><p>…</p><p>Tajo drives them back to the hotel from the restaurant, and Villanelle can practically feel the excitement vibrating off of Eve. She’s silent the whole ride, staring out the window, but she’s not fooled. Her eyes move back and forth over the Havana scenery, gears turning wildly. This Eve is one of her favorites. Her lips tight in concentration, it’s the same expression she wore in the hospital bathroom, tying her luscious hair into a ponytail. She is the Eve who lives for the thrill of the chase, for the miserable look on someone’s face when they realize she has fucked them over. </p><p>It’s still hot. And still concerning. </p><p>She pipes up about it as they walk back to the suite. </p><p>“I don’t feel good about this, Eve,” Villanelle says honestly as Eve jostles the room key into the slot. “I do not think getting involved with the Twelve again is our safest bet.”</p><p>Eve isn’t listening. “I think it’s our only bet.” She’s already through the door, shedding her purse in the kitchenette.</p><p>“We came to Cuba to get away from that, Eve,” Villanelle emphasizes, trying to catch Eve’s gaze as she tags behind her. </p><p>“We owe Julio,” Eve says blankly, still clearly not paying attention to the blonde’s misgivings. She pours herself a glass of wine, humming absentmindedly under her breath. </p><p>“Not this,” Villanelle implores her, placing her hand over Eve’s glass of wine. Talking to Eve right now feels like herding cats. The very same one-track mind that drew Villanelle in is brushing her aside.</p><p>“It’s <em> one </em> job, Villanelle,” She snaps, snatching away her glass and meeting Villanelle’s gaze with unflinching stubbornness. Villanelle stares, sighs, turns away, heading for the couch. She <em> hates </em>this. Being ignored punches an ache deep into her stomach. Something in her gives in, pushes her objections away, saves the issue for later. Again.</p><p>“Whatever you say, Eve,” Villanelle deflates, running an exhausted hand through her hair. </p><p>They exist in a tense silence, Eve’s thinking is almost louder than the soccer game she’s watching. In an attempt to cure her frustration, she makes a bag of microwave popcorn she had purchased at the small convenience and souvenir shop in the hotel lobby. She eats it by the handful on the couch, wishing Eve’s brain would shut up and leave her alone. Sadly, the paper bag of popcorn she’s eating is not a magic genie bottle, so she is forced to ask what’s on her mind, for the sanctity of her television program. </p><p>Eve quickly looks up from the marble counter, almost surprised by her change of heart. </p><p>“Oh,” she says. “Just about tomorrow. Our game plan.” </p><p>“Mm,” Villanelle muses back. “My shift starts at four. When did Tajo say--” </p><p>“Four thirty,” she finishes, then falls into her intense line of thinking again. It’s quiet as she takes a long sip of wine, the TV a pleasant murmur in the background. “Do you think I should have… like an identity or something?”</p><p>Villanelle smiles in spite of herself and places the now finished bag of popcorn on the coffee table. “Do you want to have an identity?”</p><p>Eve sighs. “Well, I’m already Angela Michaels.”</p><p>At this, Villanelle laughs. She sees Eve blink, surprised again, like she can’t imagine sharing a nice moment with her, or, at least, even sharing a joke. A sharp pain in her chest follows, not unlike the one she had the previous night as she sat dejected on the curb, drunk and alone. It’s unfamiliar and bitter. She hates being bitter. It’s not a good look, gives her forehead wrinkles, and she hates those. </p><p>After a moment, she speaks. “You’ve been watching too many telenovelas.” Although, she will admit that Andre and Silvestro’s arc is pretty entertaining. They went from mortal enemies to gay lovers in merely three episodes. It’s the kind of story that appeals directly to her. </p><p>Eve snorts into her wine glass. “Probably,” she says, bitter as well. On Eve, bitter is attractive. It’s her primary state of being, she’s learned, and it’s a state of being she enjoys. The pessimism with which Eve faces the world is interesting and different from any other person she’s encountered. Typically, those who are bitter let it drag them down. The negativity hangs over their heads like a comically drawn thundercloud, periodically striking them with lightning. Instead, her negativity is what fuels her, makes her strong, gives her ambition. It would be admirable if it wasn’t the primary reason why they haven’t had and aren’t having sex right now. </p><p>Villanelle decides to indulge her. Although the wound of last night is still fresh and open, she harbors some guilt that Eve hasn’t had anything to be ambitious (or even that negative) about. Every day, she goes out, doing spy work and such, while Eve lays around watching TV and mindlessly perusing the resort shops. She almost offers to switch. Bartending is exhausting.</p><p>So, she decides to make this job much more important than it actually is. “Okay, what’s your new name?” she asks. </p><p>“I can barely remember my own two,” Eve says honestly. “I think I should stay Angela.” </p><p>“Fair. What’s your occupation?” </p><p>Eve answers without hesitation. “Lawyer.”</p><p>“Sexy,” she comments, wandering her eyes up and down Eve’s body. It’s an excellent one, and she’s grateful she gets to look at it every day. </p><p>She rolls her eyes.  “Hilarious,” she says, deadpan, but Villanelle doesn’t miss the slight hint of red blooming on her cheeks. </p><p>“What kind of law?” she inquires, lazily lounging on the couch. It’s still uncomfortable, and she hopes Eve will let her stay in the bed tonight. She starts forming an argument in her head about how it’s important for an assassin to be well rested in case danger arises. That should work on her, she thinks. </p><p>Eve smirks, the flush in her cheeks alive and well, the wine getting her.  “Divorce.” </p><p>She pops a piece of popcorn into her mouth. “I like it. Tell me more.” </p><p>Eve thinks, ready to play the game, her brain whirring louder. “Went to Barnard College as an undergrad. She hated the city so she decided to try Ann Arbor for her law degree and got into UMich. After school, she got a job at a big Los Angeles law firm, handling celebrity divorce cases. Now, she’s on honeymoon with her new wife, but that doesn’t stop work from taking up all of her time.” </p><p>“And how does Angela’s wife feel about this.” She rises from the couch, strolling into the kitchen to dispose of her empty popcorn bag. </p><p>Eyes half-lidded over the glass, a smile grows on Eve’s lips, tinged scarlett from the wine. “Bitter,” she says then takes a final gulp. She slowly drags her tongue over her cupid’s bow, careful to collect every last drop. It’s a cheater’s move, one with which Villanelle is quite familiar. However, it works, and she finds herself leaning back against the bar counter, arms folded to the side, reeled in closer and closer. </p><p>Realizing her own folly, a dangerous foray into the game she’s been trying to avoid, Eve turns, putting the large wine glass in the sink. Wordlessly, she heads back into the bedroom and shuts the door, leaving Villanelle in her position, frozen in a moment she didn’t get to finish. The absence of her presence is immediate, and her chest hurts. This is the part of her that wishes the game could have a time out, or half time, or whatever they call it in sports. A man in an ugly striped uniform blows a whistle, yelling at them to have a conversation. The other part of her revels in the toxicity of unspoken words and heated glances and drunken kisses in the middle of the night. </p><p>She thinks the strength of each part depends on what she eats for lunch. Today it was an unsatisfying beach front hot dog so she’s moody. It’s not even that difficult to make a hot dog, but they forgot the relish, which soured the whole experience.  </p><p>And, as if her day couldn’t get any worse, she has to spend another night on the couch. The hurt in her chest begins to burn angry. She sits down on her uncomfortable rock of a bed and briefly debates leaving. She has her money, passports, anything she could need. All she has to do is walk out the door. </p><p>Maybe last year she would have. It wouldn’t have been a topic of debate. She could have woken up, decided she didn’t like the wallpaper, and be in another country by noon. But this whole being in love thing? Massively inconvenient. Now, like a neutered pitbull, she sits where she’s told and comes when she’s called. She should ask Eve if they can put bells on the door so she can ring them when she has to take a shit. </p><p>Reaching for the blanket, she absentmindedly changes channels on the television, looking for something more interesting than soccer, golf, and infomercials. Because this day is the worst day ever, her fingers grasp fruitlessly at air. The object of her desire is lost in the throes of the master bedroom where she had left it in the midst of her drunken stumble last night. She weighs whether or not she needs it, eventually concluding sleep without blankets is insufferable regardless of temperature. </p><p>“I need a blanket,” Villanelle declares when she struts into the room. Expecting to be met with annoyance and a hint of disgust, she heads straight for her cozy throw, bundled on the ground. When she stands up, jaw set and defiant, she finds Eve staring at her from a book. She looks expectant. Villanelle stops. </p><p>“Are you going to sleep here?” Eve asks, tone carefully hardened.</p><p>“What?” Villanelle’s face goes blank.</p><p>“Hm?” Eve says, already looking back at her book. <em> Spanish For Dummies </em>. She bought it at the airport and didn’t laugh at any of Villanelle’s jokes about it. </p><p>“...Okay,” She says, cautious. “Are you inviting me to?” </p><p>Eve flips the page, not even glancing at her. “As long as you don’t snore too loud. Or steal the covers like you did last night.”</p><p>“You know, Eve,” she says, walking to grab a pair of silk pajama pants and loose t-shirt from her <em> beautiful </em> leather duffle bag. “Most people don’t complain this much when they have me in their bed.” </p><p>Eve barks out a dry laugh. “I’m not most people.” </p><p>“That is true,” Villanelle huffs under her breath. Beyond letting Eve off the hook anymore, she tugs down her beige chinos, catching her eye as the fabric slowly slides down her legs. Eve’s face is unreadable, but, against the light of the lamp, she sees her pupils widen and maintains eye contact, basking in the attention. There is something sweeter about it when the other person can’t stop themselves from looking. Serves her right for being so aloof and confusing since they reunited on the bridge. It’s strange, in hindsight, how she thought they were finally saying something, finally choosing each other, but it turned out to be nothing at all. Dwelling on the thought for too long makes the anger strike flint in her chest, and she’s far too tired for such a fire.  </p><p>Refocusing, she slips on her silk pants, then goes for her top, and they are still staring at each other. Another one of their games. She makes a small show of removing the sleeveless white blouse, Eve watching her steadily over the pages of her book. In a move that one may consider cheap, she turns and unclasps her bra. She can’t see her expression, but she assumes it’s priceless. Lingering without her top for an amount of time one may also consider cheap, she throws the loose orange and blue teddy bear tee over her head. Luckily, she had left it in her money stash bag at the Barcelona villa before she went to London. It is her comfiest shirt, and she figured it important to hide. She briefly wonders what the Twelve did with her things after they cleared the place out. The green golfing outfit was one of her favorites. </p><p>Ready for sleep, she climbs into the side of the bed opposite Eve, sticking as close to the edge as possible. It’s a California king so they’d have to make several large movements to reach each other, but she doesn’t want to take any risks. The mattress is like the caress of a lover, (which is good, since Villanelle could use one), and she settles into it with a soft groan. </p><p>Eve clicks off the light, putting her book aside on the nightstand and curling up under the covers. Both women have their backs to one another. There is no <em> goodnight </em> , no <em> sleep well </em>, just Eve’s decision that the evening has ended. </p><p>“Is this going to be a regular arrangement?” Villanelle grunts to the opposite wall. </p><p>“Whatever. I don’t care,” Eve mumbles, pulling more covers towards her side of the bed. Villanelle tugs back. The duvet is yanked tight between them, neither willing to leave any slack. </p><p>Villanelle opens her mouth to say something, but the biting wit has drained out of her. Instead, she closes her eyes, exhaling a heavy sigh. Her thoughts feel syrupy with exhaustion. There’s a moment before Eve rolls over onto her back, releasing the slightest bit of blanket from her grasp. Villanelle accepts it gratefully. </p><p>Without another word, the two women slide into sleep. </p><p>...</p><p>In the morning, Villanelle wakes with the warm sunlight hitting her cheek, and two lanky arms wrapped loosely around her midsection. It’s a cozy feeling, she thinks as she snuggles into the touch. It’s been a long time since she’s been held like this, and she revels in the easiness of it all. </p><p>Of course, the easiness changes to immense difficulty, when she realizes the one with their arms around her is MI6’s very own Eve Polastri, who is quietly breathing into her teddy bear shirted shoulder. She knows the minute she moves, the other woman’s eyes will fly open, and it will be over, so she stays put, only using her hand to brush away a curl that had fallen into Eve’s mouth. </p><p>She admires the softness of her features as she sleeps.The lines of her forehead have faded into obscurity, relieving her of the hardness with which she carries herself. Eve’s fingernails ever so slightly dig into the fabric of her tee shirt, and she wonders if it is her unconscious attempt to stop Villanelle from leaving, like last night she could hear her bitter couch thoughts through the bedroom walls. </p><p>It’s nice here, wrapped up in Eve’s arms, but she respects her enough to know she would rather be caught dead than in this position. So, ever-so-gently, the blonde attempts to extricate herself from Eve’s embrace, pulling away from her body. As soon as Villanelle begins to move, though, she hears a grunt, and feels the sleep-drunken movements of the woman beside her. She freezes, bracing for impact.</p><p>“<em> GRAHHGH </em>!” Eve yells, scrambling back and getting tangled up in the blankets. Villanelle winces apologetically. </p><p>“Good morning,” She says meekly, propping herself up on the bed. Eve is clutching at her torso like she’s been burned. </p><p>“Uh. Hi,” Eve mumbles, not meeting Villanelle’s gaze. She runs a hand through her hair, then wipes at her eyes, blinking furiously. </p><p>“Sleep well?” Villanelle asks, standing up from the bed like nothing has happened. </p><p>“Fine,” Eve grunts, also climbing out of the bed. The two women stand opposite each other from other sides of the room. </p><p>“Well I better—”</p><p>“Yeah I gotta—”</p><p>“Shower—”</p><p>“Breakfast—”</p><p>“Yeah.” They mutter, avoiding eye contact. Villanelle doesn’t move, waiting for Eve to go. She looks like she doesn’t want to be the one to leave, but after a few long awkward moments, she does, walking past a stoic Villanelle on her way to the bathroom. She closes the door carefully, leaving Villanelle standing at the unmade bed where they had laid, entangled, minutes before. </p><p>...</p><p>They get ready quietly, stepping considerately around each other. Eve makes the bed, Villanelle tidies up the kitchenette. The suite is noticeably silent. They’re both afraid to break it, setting things down and walking deliberately light-footed, avoiding making a sound. </p><p>Finally, after about a half an hour, there are no more chores to invent and no more flat surfaces to clean off. Eve clears her throat, deliberately snapping the hush. Villanelle looks up from her feigned interest in the hotel phone book. </p><p>“I’m, uh. I need to buy my disguise. For tonight,” Eve says, clutching her purse like it’s an explanation. </p><p>“Oh?” Villanelle says by way of a response. </p><p>“I think Angela Michaels needs some nicer clothes.” It’s Eve’s attempt at humour, cracking the frigid seriousness that had enveloped them like a frost since last night, and Villanelle is grateful. She smiles. It’s the first smile exchanged between them all morning. </p><p>“Do you have—”</p><p>“I have money,” Eve cuts her off, turning towards the door. </p><p>“Right,” Villanelle says, still holding the phone book open. </p><p>“I’ll be back by three.”</p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>Eve leaves the apartment, and almost impossibly, the suite becomes even quieter. Villanelle spends the day pretending like she’s not lonely, and so does things that definitely-not-lonely people do, like bingeing Eve’s telenovela, folding all of Eve’s clothes, and reading through Eve’s pencilled-in notes in <em> Spanish for Dummies </em>. </p><p>
  <em> Ser =/= Estar?? 2 different words for be </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Cuban word for bus: la guagua </em>
</p><p>
  <em> tener: teno, tenes, tene, tenemos, tenen </em>
</p><p>Villanelle grimaces, taking a deep breath in at the sight of Eve’s horribly butchered verb conjugation. She shouldn’t correct it. Then Eve would know she read her book. Villanelle puts the text aside, firm in her resolve not to fix Eve’s errors. </p><p>She shouldn’t correct it. </p><p>She shouldn’t. </p><p>Villanelle calls the front desk to see if they have any red pens. They do.</p><p>She crosses out the whole conjugation, and in scarlet red, rewrites: <em> tengo, tienes, tiene, tenemos, tienen.  </em></p><p>Flipping through more of the <em> Spanish for Dummies, </em> she comes across a page specifically dedicated to food, and adjectives to describe it. All down the vocabulary list, Eve has made little notes in delicate pencil, starring and underlining certain foods. <em> La manzana. El bistec. El plátano. Las papas fritas. </em> All of Villanelle’s favorite foods, marked with gentle squiggles and stars—or even, in one case, the phrase “ <em> su favorito </em> ,” denoting the translation of <em> la vaca frita </em>. Villanelle feels her heart swell into her throat, but she stuffs it down. </p><p>In a way, she almost misses Eve. </p><p>Thankfully, it’s not too long before the other woman returns, a sleek shopping bag hung over her shoulder. Eve sets the bag down gingerly, then pulls an overly large pair of sunglasses off her face, resting them on the counter with the room key. It’s almost domestic, could almost be a harried arrival home after a long day of errands. It’s not, though.</p><p>“How was your shopping?” Villanelle asks, scrolling mindlessly though her phone on the couch. It’s been a long day.</p><p>“Good,” Eve says, somewhat brightly. Villanelle looks up in surprise. Eve is smiling, almost glowing with excitement. She seems to have forgotten about this morning’s awkward encounter. </p><p>“What did you buy?” She scootches over, closer to the bag so she can peer in. Eve produces a slender black dress, long and fitted with spaghetti straps. She holds it up, smoothing out the wrinkles. Villanelle startles.</p><p>Eve is dangling a dress in front of Villanelle that is alarmingly reminiscent of the first one that the blonde ever bought her. It has none of the white, but it is the same angular style, will fit Eve’s body in the same flattering way. At the bottom of the bag is a tube of lipstick, viciously red. </p><p>“Femme fatale,” Villanelle croaks, lost for words. </p><p>“That’s Angela’s for you. Sexy like that...” </p><p>Villanelle bites back the obvious reply, and she thinks—she <em> thinks </em> —Eve looks slightly disappointed. She folds the dress over her arm and walks into the bedroom, closing the door behind her. Unfortunately. While she waits, Villanelle absorbs herself in the Cuban newspaper, noticing the words Eve circled for today. <em> Estatuas. Indígena. Derecho. </em>She is busy skimming the news when she hears a door clicking open and the clearing of a throat. </p><p>It’s Eve, standing taller than usual in slingback heels. The dress hugs her body at the hips and mid-thigh and clings tightly to her chest. A layer of blood red pigment coats her lips, and her hair is styled out into a wildly curly mane. </p><p>Villanelle watches her, trailing her eyes up and down her body. The last time that Eve had stood in front of her in this dress, they had barely made eye contact for a moment before the older woman had sprinted away in terror. Villanelle is afraid to meet her eyes again, afraid that she’ll run away again. </p><p>“Do you like it?” Eve’s voice is unexpectedly soft.</p><p>“Are you asking Julie?” Villanelle utters. </p><p>“I’m asking you.” </p><p>“Yes,” She says, finally connecting their gaze. “I do.”</p><p>… </p><p>Their plan is simple, and Eve’s idea. Villanelle will deliver drinks to the two men, the skinny black one from Julio’s photo and an older Cuban native. Clumsily, she will knock a drink onto the both of them, and Eve, in the commotion, will sneak up and grab the key, wherever it may be. Fast and easy. If anything goes wrong, she’ll intervene. She doesn’t tell Eve this part. </p><p>When Villanelle arrives on her shift at four o’clock on the dot, she spots them immediately sitting at two bar stools. The younger wears a horrendous yellow jacket and fidgets with the key ring in his fingers as they chat. She is grateful for this strange twist of events where their task is easier than expected, and he doesn’t haven’t it hidden in a secret pocket in his coat or something. </p><p>Eve walks into the bar in her stunning outfit around 15 minutes later. Her hair flows over her shoulders in perfect ringlets, and she briefly forgets the margarita she’s making, stunned by the woman in front of her. Eve takes a seat a couple of stoops away from them. After a moment, she waves Villanelle over for a drink. </p><p>“Champagne,” she says, a smile toying on her lips, and Villanelle doesn’t know if she likes Angela Michaels all that much. She’s rude. However, she is glad to see Eve has recovered her sense of humor. It was getting boring making jokes at a brick wall. </p><p>Villanelle pours the bubbly liquid into a flute, placing it on a logoed napkin. “On the house,” she whispers and winks. </p><p>In the plan, they decided to wait a cool ten minutes after Eve shows up before they perform their show. During this time, she listens to the men, conversing in casual Spanish. </p><p>“<em> No, man. I saw her take Enriqué into her office last week, and he hasn’t been the same since. He didn’t even come to rec baseball practice on Tuesday. You know he’s the best shortstop on the team, man, </em>” Skinny Man says, eyes wide with fear. In his anxiety, he nearly tosses the keys across the bar. Catching himself, he slips them into his jacket pocket. Villanelle hopes Eve notices. </p><p>Goateed Cuban Man rolls his eyes. “<em> You’re being ridiculous </em> . <em> Claudia isn’t that bad.” </em></p><p>Skinny shakes his head rapidly. “<em> Yes, she is. They’re nicer in Asia. You’ve been away too long. </em>”</p><p>“<em> Look, she’s my cousin. I went to her birthday party last week. Nobody died </em> . <em> Nobody got tortured.” </em> Goatee sighs and sips his tequila. “ <em> You’re overreacting.”  </em></p><p>“<em> I am not!  What about the toilet paper?” </em>Skinny asks pointedly, raising his eyebrows. </p><p>Goatee grows serious. “<em> That was Paola’s fault.”  </em></p><p>“<em> She didn’t replace the roll, and now she has no fingers on her right hand! Now she couldn’t replace it even if she wanted to!”  </em></p><p><em> “I need another drink,” </em>Goatee responds, raising his hand to Villanelle. She and Eve make eye contact before she goes to help him. </p><p>“What can I get you two gentlemen?” She inquires in English, as is customary at the bar. She gives them a sickeningly sweet grin. </p><p>“Another one of these.” Goatee raises his empty glass. Tequila on the rocks with a splash of lime. </p><p>“I’ll take an…” Skinny peers at the cocktail menu. “Appleeteeeeneee.” He sounds out each syllable like it’s the first time he’s said it. </p><p>Goatee slaps his shoulder. “Are you kidding me, man? What are you, <em>una</em> <em>chica</em>?” </p><p>“No. It looks good.” The other man slumps in his chair. </p><p>“It is,” Villanelle chimes in. </p><p>“See!” He exclaims, gesturing at her. </p><p>Goatee shakes his head in disbelief. “Whatever, señorita.” Skinny frowns but doesn’t say anymore. </p><p>Villanelle prepares their drinks with the ease and skill of an experienced bartender. She’s found in these past couple weeks she does enjoy the craft, despite how exhausting it can be during weekends. There’s a certain art to making a good cocktail. </p><p>She glances at Eve as she is about to hand over the two drinks. She’s daintily sipping her champagne and gives her a subtle nod. </p><p>“Wait,” Skinny interrupts. “Be careful, miss, this jacket is custom tailored. Brand new. If you could just put the drink down on the counter.” </p><p>“Sure,” Villanelle says through clenched teeth, obeying his request, and, of course, there’s a wrench in their plan. It would be out of character for things to go smoothly. </p><p>Before she can figure out how to nab the key from his pocket, Eve is barreling over to them, knocking over everything in her path, including the appletini and tequila. Villanelle thinks she has never looked this hot. </p><p>“<em> What the fuck, lady?! </em>” Skinny curses loudly in Spanish. </p><p>Eve’s eyes are wide and frantic, and she speaks with a Southern drawl stretching her typical American accent. “I am sorry, sir. I’m just soooo clumsy. Let me help you.” She reaches for his jacket to help him take it off. Villanelle feels a swell of pride in her chest  For herself, not Eve, because she is a great teacher. </p><p>The accent is endearing enough, and her outfit is sexy enough that Skinny softens. “Oh, it’s okay, miss. I don’t—“ </p><p>He stops in surprise as Eve doesn’t stop awkwardly yanking his jacket, her hand swiftly rummaging through his pocket. Goatee watches in amusement. </p><p>“Oh, no. My wife always says I should watch my step. I’m so embarrassed. Let me help you take this off.” </p><p>“Seriously, miss, it’s okay!” He tries to pull away, but she is tearing it off his arms, and Villanelle watches her struggle to find the key, helpless to do anything. Thankfully, it’s only a millisecond later she stops torturing the poor man. The shiny key goes from her hand into her purse without them noticing. </p><p>Skinny rolls his shoulders, readjusting himself, when she finally moves back. </p><p>“Sorry again,” Eve titters then scampers out of the bar. </p><p>“Weird,” muses Goatee. </p><p>Villanelle waits until she’s around the corner to whisper to the two of them. “That lady is here every day. A bit of a—“ She mimes a bottle with her hands, pretending to chug. </p><p>“Ah,” both the men say knowingly. </p><p>Skinny checks his watch, spinning on his heels to face Goatee. “<em> Shit,” </em> he growls in Spanish. “ <em> We need to be at the unit in 10 minutes.”  </em></p><p>Goatee looks at him in abject horror. “<em> Are you fucking serious? We’ll never make it.”  </em></p><p>“<em> I know. She’s going to kill us,” </em> Skinny hisses back. “ <em> We have to go. Now.”  </em></p><p>“<em> Don’t worry about your beverages, gentlemen. Sorry for the commotion. Have a nice day </em>,” Villanelle interrupts, also in Spanish, while they quickly fish through their pockets. </p><p>They look up surprised, then grateful. “<em> Thank you!” </em>Skinny shouts, and they rush out of the bar, headed to wherever their urgent destination is. </p><p>Eve strolls back to her, mere seconds later, arrogance in every step. She swings her legs over the stool with a smirk and leans onto the counter. “Pretty good for an old lady, huh?”</p><p>“Did they see you?” Villanelle asks in a hushed tone. </p><p>“No. I watched them sprint to the parking lot from the beach. The older guy with the goatee even dropped his wallet and would’ve kept running if the skinny one didn’t pick it up.” She chuckles and plays with the napkin in front of her. </p><p>Villanelle nods. “Good work.” Putting another glass with Eve’s, she pours them a celebratory champagne. </p><p>“Drinking on the job?” Eve questions, a clear flirtation. The adrenaline of the sting flushes her cheeks, and her foot taps against the metal of the stool. To onlookers, she could almost be a tweaker. And, with the way she’s staring dangerously at Villanelle’s lips, she must be high. </p><p>Ignoring every muscle in her body’s burning will to push forward and oblige Eve’s challenge, she drinks from her glass. “It’s a congratulations.” She says it coolly, careful not to betray her desire. </p><p>“For what?” Furrowing her eyebrows, Eve also takes a drink. </p><p>“Your first successful mission. The only one that hasn’t ended in disaster. Good work, Eve.” </p><p>“Hey!” Eve objects and puts her glass down. “I found you, didn’t I?” </p><p>Villanelle squints, pursing her lips. “Did you? Or did I <em> let you </em> find me?” </p><p>The other woman scoffs, defiant. “I’m better than that.” </p><p>“Perhaps,” she says softly. She views Eve over the lip of her champagne. “Perhaps.” They stare at each other for a beat, and she fondly recalls the day she walked in on Eve destroying her Parisian apartment. She misses that place, and the cute old lady across the hall. She wonders if she’s dead yet. </p><p>Eve clears her throat, interrupting her daydream montage of all the fun fashion she had in her wardrobe there. Another place the Twelve ransacked. That beautiful pink dress was truly exquisite. What a terrible loss. </p><p>“What time do you get off?” Eve winces in anticipation of the inevitable sexual response to her question. </p><p>Villanelle gives her a break. The innuendos are no fun if the person is expecting them. “Two,” she says, sadly. Eve seems like she could be pleasant to hang out with right now. It’s a shame she actually has to do this job. </p><p>“I can… I can, uh. Walk you ho—I mean, we can walk back to the room together. Just in case those guys come poking around again.” Her eyes are locked on the bottles of liquor to the right of Villanelle’s head, and her foot tap has shifted from manic to anxious. </p><p>She regards her thoughtfully. The offer is an apology, although understated, and a rare occurrence in their game. Her lunch of fish tacos was delicious enough to let the half of her that enjoys the game win. Still, it doesn’t stop the other half from aching, desperate for any sign they could stop and admit they’ve both lost. The only way this agony ends is in a stalemate. </p><p>“Sure, Eve,” she replies, not ready to let go yet. “I’d like that.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>this chapter was pretty plot-heavy but next one is going to b a real good time. we would REALLY like feedback so if u leave a constructive comment we will love u forever n ever. also, just a heads up, ch 5 (and probably ch 6 too) will both take more than a week to write. not only are they bound to be very long but anna is about to get busy and i'm working again so things just take longer. it'll update when it updates. thanks for tuning in! :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. too many doors</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Eve and Villanelle make friends.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>heyyyyyyyyyyyy everybody. isabella here, we promised we'd be back!! it DID take awhile, but we warned you. hopefully it's made up for by the fact that this is our longest chapter yet. a lot goes down in this one and we're SUPER excited for chapter 6 which not take as long to write. reminder that anna writes this fic listening to the AYBY official soundtrack, which you can find linked below! please enjoy this labor of love and thanks for your patience. </p><p>https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0TxFjHKUNxp57iTV3lYHtw?si=uGdG2yoUSYGx5nb3nNHieQ</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Eve and Villanelle sit across from one another in a cafe at a table for two. The former clutches a cup of black coffee, steaming in the tropical humidity. Despite her best efforts, Villanelle can’t get Eve to drink cold brew in the mornings.</p><p>“It is thirty-five degrees, Eve,” Villanelle says, sucking a long draw of iced coffee up through a metal straw. “I just do not understand how you could drink that when it is so hot.”</p><p>“Hot coffee in the mornings, cold coffee in the afternoons,” Eve says stubbornly. “That’s the way it’s meant to be.”</p><p>“You are so obstinate. Like a donkey.”</p><p>“Yeah, but you don’t mind,” Eve smiles, and there’s a beat before Villanelle does too.</p><p>“Sometimes,” She amends pointedly, jostling the ice in her drink. They’re quiet for several minutes, finishing their beverages in relative peace. They had a pleasant evening after the sting. Eve stayed at the bar, drinking gin and tonics at a reasonable pace, always on the tipsy side of drunk. Eve is brighter when she’s drunk, looser-tongued and even wittier than usual. When Villanelle’s shift finally ended, they walked back to the room side-by-side, entered the suite, and got ready for bed around one another in a comfortable sort of rhythm. When they laid down between the sheets, neither of them hogged the blankets, seeming intent on keeping this tenuous peace between them. And now they’re sitting over coffee, arguing about nothing at all, and it almost feels like they could make this work. Eve gets down to the dregs and sets her mug down on the table with a <em> clunk. </em>Villanelle looks up in surprise.</p><p>“So I was thinking about last night,” Eve says, biting her lip. “About the sting.”</p><p>“It went well,” Villanelle says, shrugging. “What is there to worry about?”</p><p>“Not worry. Think,” Eve corrects, drumming her fingers on the table. “It was too easy.”</p><p>“Hm?” </p><p>“Nothing went wrong,” she says, voice thrumming with suppressed excitement. “Isn’t that suspicious to you?” Villanelle appears to genuinely consider this.</p><p>“No,” she says after a moment. “You have seen my work. Does it look like I run into problems?”</p><p>“Well...no,” Eve admits, but doubles down. “I can’t shake the feeling that there was something else going on there. I mean, how did Julio even know those men would be there anyway?”</p><p>“There wasn’t, Eve,” Villanelle says flatly, flipping through a stack of bills and selecting one to leave on the table. “Julio had a job for us. It is pointless to worry why. These kinds of people...they are playing a long game of chess.” She stands up, sliding her chair back, a signal for the curly-haired woman to do the same.</p><p>“But how can you be sure?” Eve pushes, reluctant to leave.</p><p>“Listen. I know you are new to this, and it is exciting for you,” Villanelle says, the slightest note of bitter condescension entering her voice. “But what you saw last night? That is all there was. That’s all we had to do.”</p><p>“Why can’t you see that there could be something happening here?” Eve says, slightly shocked at Villanelle’s dismissal. </p><p>“Okay, so what if there is. We get involved with it?” Villanelle says, shaking her head. “Why do I <em>always</em> have to remind you that we came here to run from all of that?” She reaches her hand across the table to give Eve’s a squeeze. “Doesn’t—doesn’t this matter to you?” Villanelle’s voice goes rough like it does when she’s trying not to get choked up. Eve snatches her hand away, angered by the very gesture.</p><p>“How can you just turn away from it?” Eve retorts, disgusted. Villanelle looks sad.</p><p>“Look, Eve, I am tired. I have to work again tonight. Can’t we just go back to the room?” She sighs, heavy, trying to hold on to some of the easiness that had existed between them only moments ago. Their sunny coffee date and the amicable peace of last night had soured, curdled in the Cuban heat. </p><p>“No,” Eve says, surprising even herself. Villanelle raises her eyebrows. “You go back. I’ll be there later. There’s something I’ve got to do.”</p><p>“Eve—” Villanelle protests, donning a <em> come on, now </em> sort of expression. </p><p>“You want to go back to the suite, fine. I’ll see you later.” Eve stands, pushes her chair in, and heads off with her purse without another word, not caring that she is leaving Villanelle alone, stunned and seeming to wonder how it had gone so wrong so fast. Again. </p><p>…</p><p>Despite the guilt that lingers like a lead weight in the pit of her stomach, Eve finds herself enjoying her excursion into Havana proper nonetheless. The antique cars and colorful, historic architecture welcome her into the city, and as the buzz of the chase thrums through her veins, Eve can feel herself coming alive. </p><p>She thinks about Villanelle very little. Almost not at all, honestly. Her name barely comes up. And besides, even if it did, Eve has more important things to worry about. Figuring out what the hell is going on with Julio surely takes precedence. Eve confidently asserts this to herself on the <em> gaugau </em>into the city, settling back into her seat once she was assured of her focus for the day.</p><p>The bus slows, jolting Eve from her thoughts. They’ve clearly passed into a more run-down part of Havana. She sights a door labelled <em> Cibercafé, </em>squeezed between two other, much taller complexes. It appears old and slightly dank, but without a cell phone and in dire need of internet access, it’s the best Eve can do. She clambors off the bus, thanks the driver, and stands outside of the dirty concrete structure, clutching at her purse. The building almost reminds her of the Trafalgar Square office—the smell and character just slightly off-color, a place tucked away from prying tourist eyes. Suddenly, wholly, Eve’s heart aches, heavy and deep in her chest.</p><p>She misses the cool rain of London. The summer feels suffocating.</p><p>Eve sets her jaw and pushes it away, lunging for the door with the conviction of someone motivated by nothing more than a body that demands constant movement. </p><p>“<em> Quiero comprar tres horas de internet internacional, por favor </em>,” Eve says in confidently American-stilted Spanish to the haggard man running the desk, having rehearsed that statement several times on the way over. </p><p>“<em> Costará ocho pesos, señora,” </em> He says without looking up from his book. Eve promptly passes the bills, also having calculated out the price before her arrival. The man slides the access cards to her, and she hastily tucks them into her purse. “ <em> Usted puede usar el computadora número siete. </em>”</p><p>“<em> Gracias </em>,” Eve answers, wincing as her tongue refuses to roll the ‘R’. She takes up residence at the computer, punching in the internet access code on the card and starting the clock on her three-hour internet window. Though Eve eagerly fidgets as the aging computer boots up its browser, by the time the search window has finally loaded, she is overwhelmed with possibility, staring at the blank url bar. It’s been weeks now since she’s used the internet. Eve had ditched her phone at the Barcelona airport, figuring that ending the metadata trail there would be wisest and knowing the SIM wouldn’t work in Cuba. Villanelle, the millennial that she is, had insisted on taking hers, though under threat of her life by Eve to keep it in airplane mode and use it only for downloaded games. Besides, Villanelle liked her photo library. She’d even tried to show the older woman her VSCO account, filled with filtered photos of European cities. Eve had waved her off, promising to look through them later. </p><p>Staring at the empty search bar, she is now realizing that she never did. </p><p>Promising to begin her digging on Julio soon, Eve indulges herself by signing in to her personal gmail. It takes over a minute to load. Bracing herself in anticipation of a deluge of emails from Carolyn, from the MI6 higher-ups, from Bitter Pill, from anyone, she closes one eye as the inbox finally loads—</p><p>Seven. Only seven new emails in almost a month since running away. </p><p>Shoving down her disappointment, Eve scans the subject lines. One of them is from her wine-of-the-month box, pushing her to reconsider her cancellation. Two are from The Gap, advertising clearance sales on Spring clothing. Three are bills of varying sorts, which she quickly deletes. And one, dated two and a half weeks ago, is from Jamie.</p><p>She feels like a ghost reentering its body, reminded again of its duties to the human realm. She hadn’t thought about him in weeks, not him specifically—maybe his house, or the Bitter Pill office, or the racecar-themed bedroom, but not Jamie. Something about seeing his name makes London feel viscerally close and vanishes the ocean’s distance she’s put between them, both physically and mentally. </p><p>
  <em> Subject line: Wherever you are... </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Eve. I don’t know where you are now, or where you went after Barcelona. I don’t even know if you’ll get this email. Either way, I thought I’d tell you what’s happening here, in case for some reason you can’t know. An MI6 man named Paul Bradwell was found dead by his boyfriend the morning you left for Spain. The London coroner’s office quickly ruled it a suicide. It was kept pretty quiet and your name was never mentioned. I’m wondering if it should have been. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> A few days ago an older woman—tall—arrived in the office, asking for you. We told her that you didn’t work here anymore. She asked why you moved on. Bear suggested that you were terminated for repeated office snack burglaries. She didn’t seem to like that answer very much.  Haven’t seen hide nor hair of her since that day. I hope wherever you are, you’re safe, and they haven’t found you.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> A white-haired Russian man arrived shortly after that with an intense interest in providing information on the Twelve in exchange for a place to stay. Seemed to think that MI6 wouldn’t cut it, either. I mean, this dude is a gold mine. Wouldn’t give a name, though. Bear calls him Polar Bear, he pretends to dislike it but I don’t think he does. Seems to know you and your assassin...friend. Through him we’ve discovered there’s a bounty out for her. It’s quite a lot. I don’t know how protected you are, but I hope it’s enough to hide from seven figures. Anyway, he’s been helping us with some of our research. If anything big comes up I’ll let you know, I guess. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I don’t know if you’ll ever read this. I hope you’re well. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jamie </em>
</p><p>Eve stares at the monitor, head spinning. She tries to convince herself that it was all to be expected. Of course there was a bounty on Villanelle’s head—you don’t just desert the Twelve. And it made sense that Konstantin, having finally double-crossed his last double-crosser, would seek asylum with a nobody organization and hide in plain sight. Eve thought she could even stomach the idea that someone had come looking for her. After all, she’d stepped on enough toes, and figured her situation with Villanelle was not uncommon knowledge amongst the members of the Twelve, considering what Dasha had done. </p><p>What Dasha had done.</p><p>Niko, blood spurting from his neck, twitching on the ground in Poland. Eve blinks hard and the image is gone. </p><p>She tries to ground herself. This room and its yellowing walls, the warm hum of the computers and the dusty tracks between the keys—she breathes it all in, forces herself to tune into her surroundings. There are a couple of other patrons scattered about the room, all buried in their own computers, oblivious to Eve’s trauma-induced flashback. </p><p>In a way it’s somewhat comforting, the uncaringness of strangers. Eve takes a deep breath.</p><p>And then she begins to search.</p><p>...</p><p>To Villanelle, nothing says luxury like laying on the sand of a beautiful Cuban beach. The water is crystal clear and exotic little fish swim about amongst the waves—it’s so clear, she can see them even from where she lounges on a Brooklinen towel (courtesy of the hotel). After a moment of watching a triggerfish paddle back and forth through the current, she lays her head back down, closing her eyes, and revels in the warm sunlight blanketing her body. She assumes, with almost absolute certainty, that she looks ethereal. </p><p>Her thoughts drift toward Eve, as they, unfortunately, are wont to do. She wonders what she’s doing, what she’s wearing, if her crossword answers are correct today. It’s Wednesday, and she’s been on a two-day streak, but the puzzles get harder as the week goes on. Her Spanish has come such a long way, too; Villanelle is suspicious that she’s been cheating with her dummy book. However, as she tries to discern how Eve might possibly trick her when they sit across from each other at the breakfast table, she realizes she doesn’t think Eve could cheat. Perhaps her sudden fluency in a foreign language is an example of the boundless intelligence she carries inside her big, dumb brain. It’s easy to underestimate Eve. She dresses poorly, the most perfume she wears is the Secret spray-on deodorant, and, again, she dresses poorly. Yet, somehow, she manages to be the most interesting person alive—and one has to be pretty interesting for Villanelle to spare time to think about them. </p><p>And she thinks about Eve all of the time. In fact, one might say she can’t stop thinking about her. It’s quite irritating and prevents her from thinking about more enjoyable things, like the beach and the cute little fish in the water. The only way to smother her thoughts is to take a nap, but, often, her naps betray her too. Her dreams are wisps of curly black hair, so faint she can barely feel it brush against her cheek. She goes to grab it, wrap her fingers around the strands and pull as hard as she can, but, like always, they’re just out of her reach. </p><p>A presence moves toward her towel, and she figures it’s one of the hotel staff, probably the annoying 16 year old boy that ogles her from the snack stand, pestering her about ordering another drink, even though she made it clear she is enjoying her ice water. </p><p>“No thank you,” she says without opening her eyes. It’s not worth the effort. </p><p>The presence doesn’t move, instead leaning further over her body. The warmth of the sun disappears, replaced by a shadow, which she does not appreciate. </p><p>“I said no thanks,” she growls again, hoping the boy is hard of hearing, or else she may have to smack him. She looks up now, fist clenched in preparation. It’s one thing to ogle. It’s another thing to mess with her tan. </p><p>There is no pimpled teenager in sight, but she is looking directly at Julio Alvarez. His smile is blinding white. So bright, she thinks, if they stayed like this, she wouldn’t need to lay out in the heat for hours. </p><p>“<em> Hola </em>, Julie,” he says, flipping his expensive sunglasses down to get a better look at her. His brown eyes shine with a mischievous glimmer, standing out against his white, unbuttoned dress shirt and light blue trousers. “Thought I might find you here.” </p><p>She sits up, stretching her long legs like a cat. “Eve is in the room. And if she’s not, she’s engaging with some crime syndicates in Havana proper.” It’s phrased as a joke, but she realizes she has no actual idea of Eve’s whereabouts. This angers her to a point with which she is very uncomfortable. God forbid Villanelle goes somewhere without alerting her companion, but <em> Eve </em> is free to do whatever she wants. With each passing day, the collar around her neck grows tighter and her breath shallower. She longs for when she was feral, free to roam the streets as she pleased, tied to no person. </p><p>If he’s alarmed at the prospect of Eve going on a solo investigation, he doesn’t show it, and bends down closer, his voice low. “Actually, I was looking for you. In particular.” His accent melodiously rolls over the English words, like a hypnotist lulling a client into sleep. The key to being a good con artist is having a voice people can’t stop listening to, even if they should. She respects Julio’s craft. His methodology is impressive.  </p><p>Also, she’s not one to say no to flattery, especially when it comes at a cost to Eve. She’s come to the conclusion that she’s mad at her, and, as a result, is feeling spiteful. “I’m listening,” she croons back, ready to engage.</p><p> “Do you mind?” Julio asks, pulling a cigar from his pocket. She shrugs, and he lights it. Puffing soft gray smoke, surrounding himself in a hazy cloak, he takes it away from his mouth, casually grasping it between two fingers. “So, I have another job for you.”</p><p>“I thought we were done with jobs.” She’s still annoyed, despite seeing this turn of events from kilometers away. </p><p>Julio takes another puff, shaking his head no. The scent of burning tobacco normally irritates her, but the cigar must be high quality, because she finds it both pleasant and relaxing. [</p><p>“It’s not a real job. Consider it a substitution. Tajo, my...bodyguard, you’ve met him, he cannot work tonight. Personal business or something, he said.” Under his crafty facade, the flush of hurt flickers across his face for a beat. She recalls the intimate nature of his interactions with Tajo during their dinner together, ones that reminded her of Eve. In a rare moment of empathy, she is comforted in the idea that Julio is not so different from her. </p><p>“I remember,” she says, nodding with a gravitas she assumes he will recognize. </p><p>He does, and his returned smile holds a nervous edge. “I have an event to attend tonight. I need someone to fill his position. Are you up for it?” </p><p>Lazily glancing at the sky, she mulls it over. He waits patiently for her response, which she also appreciates. It’s nice to have someone around who respects her boundaries. That being said:</p><p>“Is Eve coming?” She asks. </p><p>“No,” he answers swiftly. “Just you. And it’s black tie.” Ah, a tantalizing offer. One that she is hopeless to refuse. </p><p>“Hm,” she muses, at this point just toying with him. “I accept.”  </p><p>Julio sucks on his cigar, pushing his sunglasses back up with his opposite hand. “Excellent, señora. Here is a cellphone that we can use to communicate. I will send you the valet information to pick up my car later. It’s an SUV. You can drive one, yes?” </p><p>She takes the cellphone from him after he fishes it from his pocket, then wordlessly returns to her prone position. This gesture, as intended, prompts Julio to leave, something she also appreciates. With his shadow gone, the warmth returns to her skin, and she basks in it properly. </p><p>From the ocean in front of her, children play together, yelping loudly as the tide threatens to nip their ankles. She observes them through half-lidded eyes, feeling a vague sense of familiarity as she watches a little girl, clearly part of their group, who stands a few feet away. With high pigtails that leak a stream of saltwater on her shoulders, she looks between her friends building sandcastles and the sea, both fists clenched. </p><p><em> Are we the same? </em> she thinks. Two people torn between the camaraderie of having peers, of being wanted, and the desperate urge to jump headfirst into the roaring waves, to scream into the cacophonous current until their lungs burn enough to force them upwards. Before she can contemplate further, the girl dives in, consumed in an instant. </p><p>As she waits for the child to resurface, she remembers when her father taught her to swim. He was a haughty man in his 40s, the calluses from working long hours in construction made his hands rough, but he had a kind smile that was impossible to forget. The smile is the reason she trusted him to toss her into the swimming hole, only a fifteen-minute walk from their house. That summer there were record heat waves, and the family was too poor to afford air conditioning. A luxury, her mother had said, that belonged to the bourgeoisie. Pyotr cowered at the mention of swimming, but her dad always said she was the brave one, the tough one, so she agreed, if only to fulfill her role and be rid of the heat. Before tossing her into the clutches of the bottomless creek, he said, “<em> Oksana, there’s nothing to be afraid of. Underwater is the only place you can scream, and no one will hear you. That’s something beautiful in itself. I’ll show you </em>.” Then, they were submerged, and, after a brief period of panic, she blinked open her eyes, vision skewed in the cloudy water. She saw her father, across from her, mouth wide open but nothing coming out. Awestruck, she joined in, shouting into the darkness, dissolving into giggles as she floated gently to the surface. When her head broke through, they both laughed so hard her father shot water out of his nose. Say what one will about psychopaths, but she loved him. </p><p>The ocean feels colder than the swimming hole on that disgustingly hot summer day. A wave looms overhead, and she waits for it, parting her lips ever so slightly, ready to yell louder than she ever has before. On the other side of her is the pig-tailed girl, full of the same independent determination. They catch each other’s eyes and wait for the crash together. </p><p>… </p><p>Eve rests her head in her hands. She’s on the last ten minutes of her three-hour time slot and, unfortunately, has gotten nowhere. Her dramatic visions of powering through some race-against-the-clock, high stakes research, have collapsed in the face of mundane reality—that is, that the internet censorship and slow connection have made this day at the computer an entirely anticlimactic one. Her thought process, too, was hung out to dry by the crawling pace; by the time she chased down whatever flicker of inspiration she’d had, the spark was gone. </p><p>Julio, too, was nowhere to be found—or, if he was, he was a needle in a haystack. Searches for “Julio Alvarez” turned up a Mexican singer, a retired Venezuelan football player, a doctor in New York, and endless Facebook profiles. Searches for Julio in connection with Doce Noches merely pulled up a grainy photo of him behind the bar that looked like it was taken on a Motorola Razr in 2009. Clicking on each page ate up minutes at a time, and Eve was about one error 404 from pulling her hair out. </p><p>The man at the counter eyes the wall-mounted clock between shooting pointed glances at Eve, clearly waiting for her to leave so he could clock out. She was the only patron left in the cafe, stubbornly prepared to run down every last second of internet access. With less than six minutes to go, Eve desperately googles “alvarez el atardecer havana”. When the results finally load she scrolls quickly, scanning rapidly for anything useful at all. Nothing, nothing, nothing—</p><p>
  <em> El Atardecer Guest Beatriz Alvarez Crowned Two-Time Champion In Dramatic Bingo Showdown </em>
</p><p>Bam. The resort newsletter. Eve clicks, heart thumping wildly. The clock winds down. 4 minutes left.</p><p>Eve needs a picture. <em> Kenny, I swear to God, </em> she thinks compulsively, <em> wherever you are in tech-whiz Heaven...please. </em> It’s the first time she’s thought of him without the wrenching ache of loss in her chest, and she doesn’t even have time to contemplate it because <em> finally </em>an image has loaded. </p><p>A stout, white-haired woman with wrinkled burnished-copper skin shakes hands with a (somehow) even older, slightly sour looking woman in front of a bingo cage, holding a bingo card-shaped plaque. </p><p>Eve notices almost nothing except the white-haired woman’s smile. It’s blindingly white, arrogant, and undeniably, the same grin she’s seen Julio flash a thousand times. It’s the smirk of an asshole, and it must be hereditary. </p><p>The article consists of only the picture and its caption. Eve smashes the “translate” extension, too short on time to muddle through the words with her rudimentary Spanish.</p><p>
  <em> Beatriz Alvarez (left, age 74) shakes hands with bingo master Carmen Sanchez (age 75) at the Hotel Atardecer 27th annual bingo championship after claiming her second consecutive title, beating out former reigning champion Sanchez for the second year in a row. </em>
</p><p>Eve scans quickly for the timestamp. Almost a year ago. A quick scroll up and down the page tells her the website has no more information to offer. Just as she is burning the names into her mind, the website times out. The man at the desk coughs loudly. </p><p>Eve stands abruptly, snatching up her purse with an excited sort of vindictive pleasure. It wasn’t much, but it was a lead. </p><p>“<em> Ya me despido. ¡Cuídese!” </em> Eve grins, offering a jaunty salute to the man at the desk as she triumphantly paraded out of the internet cafe, the brightest thing in the room. The man, for all his surprise, musters a muttered “ <em> adiós </em>” in return. </p><p>Standing on the sidewalk and waiting for the bus to return, Eve buzzes. She has a plan. </p><p>...</p><p>The rest of the day is basic as far as days off go. Villanelle swims for a bit, towels herself dry, and spends an obnoxious amount of time cleaning the sand from between her toes at the beach showers. A man and his two children give her dirty looks as they wait for her to finish, but she merely gives them a half-hearted shrug as she saunters away. Nothing is more infuriating than the sensation of wet grainy sand trapped in the crevices of one’s shoes and feet. Also, not to mention, the natural phenomena that occurs when one grain finds its way into designer slip-ons and somehow multiplies exponentially within it, rendering a pair of perfectly good, <em> expensive </em>shoes unwearable. So, she doesn’t really care if Mr. Grumpy and his two brats are going to be late to their midday Sangria break. She has Jimmy Choos to worry over. </p><p>After, she heads for some light shopping to assemble her outfit for the evening. Julio’s text to her new phone said it would be at a jazz club, and she is feeling rather devastating. Thus, she picks up a crisp Emporio Armani suit in black with a thin tie to match. She’s decided to put her own creative spin on the driver uniform. Her bartending position doesn’t allow for such fashion forays, and she has been missing the looks she usually gets. Not that she doesn’t always get looks because she knows what she is, but she’s referring to the looks from other women of <em> shock, awe, </em> and, at last, <em> respect </em>, that seem to follow particularly adventurous clothing decisions. Men are bound to look at her anyway. The eyes of a woman are trophies to be won, and she adores a good challenge. </p><p>Which is why it is incredibly disappointing that Eve is nowhere to be found when she returns to their suite to change, probably in pursuit of some <em> research </em> nonsense that dominates her current obsession. She has noticed Eve’s increased dedication to her <em> research </em> since yesterday, and it kicks up the ugly heartburn sensation in her chest. Knowing that antacids are useless against it, she debates starting a fight later, before they go to bed. However, it hasn’t been long enough to passive aggressively bring it up yet. Needs to simmer for a bit longer than a day. She makes a mental note to address the issue, if it persists, in one week’s time. </p><p>As she fixes her hair, tied in a loose ponytail hanging off her shoulders, she wonders if she should have purchased a fun hat. It certainly would have completed the look. She’s off her game and deduces it’s probably Eve’s fault. It’s the first thing that disappoints her about the evening. The second is how empty the lobby is when she descends the grand staircase, not a woman in sight, just the concierge and a bored looking bellhop. It’s unfortunate she wasted her dramatic entrance on them, and, especially, because she expected to see Eve sitting at the hotel’s indoor bar, located adjacent to the front desk. On the bright side, at this point, she’s given up on anything entertaining happening, and she strolls to the valet, desperate to leave the hotel and get this job over with. Maybe they’ll have free champagne at the jazz club. </p><p>A voice interrupts her trajectory. “Julie!” It exclaims with more enthusiasm than she would ever ask for. It’s Julio again, in a light blue suit, no tie, buttons still popped on his shirt, revealing tufts of dark chest hair against his tanned skin. </p><p>“Julio,” she says, looking behind him at the exit. “I was just going to retrieve the car. I was under the impression I was picking you up.” </p><p>“Originally, yes,” he replies, placing an arm around her waist and spinning her back towards the bar. It’s a gesture she would typically break someone’s wrist over, but she’s not in the mood (and also a little touch starved) so she allows it. “I was getting ready and realized you and I have never shared a proper drink. Alone. I figured it was necessary before this event, to get to know one another. I like to have personal relationships with all my <em> employees. </em>” He grins widely as he leads them to two modern loveseats placed next to a low round table. “Please sit.”</p><p>She does, lowering herself into the chair, which is surprisingly comfortable. “And what about the party? Aren’t we going to be late?”</p><p>Giving her the one second sign, he snaps his fingers at the bartender, who looks like he was in a really intense level of Angry Birds prior to realizing he was at work, then returns to her. “Fashionably late,” he says smoothly. “It’s best not to appear overager in front of this kind of company.” </p><p>The bartender scurries over, pencil and pad in hand. “¡<em> Hola </em>!” He starts in a carefully practiced greeting, of which Villanelle is very familiar. “Welcome to Hotel Atardecer. Can I get you two anything to drink?” </p><p>She opens her mouth to ask for seltzer when Julio jumps in. “<em> Dos mojitos, </em> Ricardo. The ones I like, yes?” </p><p>Ricardo nods rapidly, writing it down at a similar speed. </p><p>“Don’t let me catch you slacking off again. I don’t want to explain <em> tu madre </em> about why you’re out of the job.” He says it with a smile, but his steely gaze says differently. </p><p>“Yes, <em> tìo </em>.” He scurries back to the bar to start making drinks. </p><p>Julio lounges back into the comfortable seat. “Never own a hotel. Then everyone in your family: cousins, aunts, great aunts. They crawl out of the woodwork asking for jobs. And you end up with little <em> tipos </em> like him.” Disappointed, he watches Ricardo drop the shaker to the floor. </p><p>“I’ll keep that in mind,” she says, waiting patiently in silence for her beverage. </p><p>Ricardo scampers to them, balancing the drinks carefully. She braces herself in case he trips, but she’s pleasantly surprised to have a sunset colored mojito glass put in front of her. </p><p>“<em> Gracias,” </em>says Julio, taking a sip. He closes his eyes in delight, and Villanelle follows, now curious to taste the beverage. She presses her lips to the cool glass, letting the cocktail slide down her throat. Mulling it around in her mouth, she detects hints of cranberry juice and orange, pouring nicely with the burn of tequila. </p><p>Julio is watching her expectantly. “So?” he asks, folding his hands on his lap. </p><p>“It’s good,” she responds simply, because it is. It’s delicious, and it takes every bone in her body to not grab the whole glass and down it right there. She needs to drive and maintain all cognitive function. She still isn’t fully set on trusting Julio yet. </p><p>“Good?” He presses forward. “Just good?”</p><p>Rolling her eyes, she conceals her smile with another sip. “Very good.”</p><p>“Ah, you’re a tough one to crack, Ms. Julie.” He laughs, and it reminds her of Konstantin. She hadn’t thought much of the old man since London, but she does miss his full-bodied guffaws. “I’ll get you eventually. That’s a promise.” He points at the end of the sentence for emphasis. </p><p>“You underestimate me.”</p><p>“No, <em> Señora </em>,” he responds, taking a large gulp of the mojito. “I think I estimate you just fine.” His eyes sparkle in the warm lowlight of the bar area.  </p><p>Chuckling, she decides in this moment she does like Julio. He’s much more straightforward than Eve, and they share a specific love for subtle word play and mind games. “Mm,” she says finally. “Maybe.” </p><p>“Speaking of,” Julio says, then nods his head toward the hotel entrance where a disheveled looking Eve has wandered through. Her curly hair sticks up wildly, the Havana humidity holding it in place. An ensemble of a tank top and jeans hangs loosely on her body, in a way that wouldn’t work on anyone else but is looking very delicious on her. He raises a hand to catch her attention, and Eve peers at them in confusion before she recognizes the pair. Her steps toward them are calculated as her brain slowly processes the situation. Villanelle and Julio sitting casually at the bar together, sharing mojitos. Villanelle takes a large amount of pleasure in watching confusion then alarm then irritation flicker across her features, and she smirks from behind her straw. Julio doesn’t appear to take notice, waving emphatically. </p><p>“Eve!” He calls. “Good to see you. We were just sharing a drink before we head out.” </p><p>Eve pads closer, hesitant, and she shoots Villanelle the <em> what the fuck? </em>look that she has come so accustomed to seeing. She shrugs in response, still annoyed about the lack of attention she’s been receiving lately. </p><p>“Head out?” She repeats as a question. It is now when Eve sees how she’s dressed, dragging her eyes up and down the soft material of her fitted suit jacket. She lingers on the tie, tightly wound around her neck and tucked neatly into her breast. Unsuccessfully coughing to cover up her indiscretion, Eve continues. “Where are you two headed <em> together </em>?”</p><p>“A party,” she and Julio answer at the same time. They both laugh. Eve does not. </p><p>“I like Julio, Eve,” she says, deciding to push her buttons even more. “You’ve been hiding how fun he is from me.” From under her polite expression, Eve seethes. She watches her bite her cheek hard enough to draw blood and finds herself imagining the taste on Eve’s tongue. Salt and iron flowing hot into her mouth. </p><p>“Oh stop,” Julio chortles. “We best get going. Fashionably late turns to unreasonably late very quickly in this business, eh?” He nudges a humorous elbow in her direction. </p><p>“It’s true,” she agrees and stands up. “After you. I’ll be out in a moment. The wife,” she adds with a wink. Julio chuckles as he slides past the two of them to head to the valet. Eve glares at his retreating form. </p><p>“<em> What the fuck,” </em>hisses Eve, out loud this time, close to her ear. She feels her warm breath flush on her neck. </p><p>Villanelle shrugs, putting some distance between them, uncomfortable with the heat boiling over in her stomach. Perhaps the mojitos were a little too effective, although she doesn’t feel incapable of driving. Just incapable of having an interaction with Eve. “I’m making friends.” </p><p>Eve slumps her shoulders, voice still low. “Not with <em> him. </em> You said it yourself. There’s something… off. I don’t trust him.” </p><p>“Well,” she hums. “Just because you don’t trust someone doesn’t mean I don’t. That is not how trusting works. It’s typically a more one on one thing, Eve.” She leans in close, feeling bold again, and a strand of Eve’s hair brushes her cheek, almost exactly like her dream. “Don’t be <em> jealous. </em>” </p><p>“I’m not <em> jealous </em>.” The other woman pushes her off with a rough hand, enough to make her stumble backwards. Kind of offended, she squints, brushing off a wrinkle on her jacket.</p><p>“Sorry, sorry,” Eve mumbles immediately after, reaching out for her, then catching herself, rubbing her arms sheepishly instead. Despite the action being full of contempt, it <em> is </em> pretty sexy to see her all apologetic. </p><p>“It’s fine,” says Villanelle, curt and cold. She brushes past Eve without a second glance, hiding her pleased grin with her turned back. </p><p>...</p><p>Eve practically stomps back to the room. The thrill of having landed upon a useful lead is all but entirely extinguished by the hot sting of not-jealousy in her chest. When she arrives at the suite, she chucks down her purse and lunges for a bottle of wine, jamming in the corkscrew and cranking it open with a hollow <em> pop </em>. She debates for an instant whether a glass is necessary and settles firmly on “no”, clutching the bottle by its neck and collapsing on the couch. </p><p><em> God, I’m so angry, </em> Eve thinks as she knocks back a generous swig of wine. <em> I’m so fucking angry </em>. </p><p>It’s a burning mass beneath her ribcage, indistinct and alive. Eve feels like everything inside of her is boiling, thoughts and moments and voices and memories bubbling to the surface and then disappearing under the roiling mess. Eve has just enough self-awareness to know that it’s probably not solely Villanelle’s fault. <em> Solely </em>. She takes another gulp of wine, savors the cool of it on her tongue, the warmth of it on her throat. The room is too quiet save for the low, depressing hum of the air conditioner. </p><p>Eve fumbles for the TV remote, flicking it on from the couch. It’s tuned in to the channel that her favorite telenovela airs on—it’s the only thing they ever watch, anyway. Immediately, André and Silvestro fill the screen, clearly in the middle of an emotional scene. </p><p>“<em> No puedo creer que me hiciste esto,” </em>André says tearfully, turning away from Silvestro dramatically. </p><p>“<em> ¡Andre, por favor escúchame! </em>” Silvestro begs, kneeling behind him, equally distraught.</p><p>“<em> Creía que podíamos estar juntos...que podrías ser mi novio. Pero estaba equivocado.”  </em></p><p>
  <em> “Andre...no...por favor—” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Me lastimas. Y ahora sé que no puedo perdonarte.” </em>
</p><p>Eve turns off the TV. Her familiarity with André and Silvestro’s enemies-to-lovers storyline, thanks in part to Villanelle’s detailed explanations and her elementary understanding of Spanish reflexive verbs, has forced the scene a little too close to home. </p><p>“Fuck you, Silvestro,” Eve mutters, then burps. Takes another swig of wine. Fucking Silvestro. Promised André they could make it, that they could figure it out. Promised him that the days of holding Andre at knifepoint and sacrificing his loved ones in pursuit of his plan to steal André’s family fortune were over. And André believed him. Stupid fucking André. Stupid fucking telenovela. </p><p>It didn’t matter how much Silvestro had promised things would be different if he refused to change, right? Nothing that he did could be undone. </p><p>He couldn’t fix André’s broken marriage. Couldn’t raise André’s best friend from the dead. Couldn’t erase the bullet scar in her back. </p><p><em> Fuck </em>. </p><p>Every second of every day, she avoids thinking about <em> this, </em> dancing the mental tango to get around sitting with all that she’s lost. The grief and overwhelming emptiness roar in her ears and fill her lungs with the same fervor they did years before when her father passed. She wonders now if they had been waiting for a moment like this to rear their ugly heads, hiding out in the reservoir of her brain, waiting for the tiniest crack in the floodgates. Waiting for her to fuck up. She knows she’s wrong to put the blame on Villanelle. When she looks at her, she feels that burning desire deep in her belly just as fucking <em> vividly </em> as she sees the smoking cigarette butt the assassin dangles over her life’s charred remains. And when Eve looks in the mirror? She sees the ashen path carved into her flesh where she let it happen—no—encouraged it along. </p><p>There is no love without blame. There is no growth for them without destruction. Whatever they have here is fertilized with the incinerated remains of everything Eve knew. And whatever they have here is slowly washing away with the reservoir as she stands by and watches.</p><p>Eve takes a long, long swallow of wine. The room is so quiet again. </p><p>She walks, swaying, to the bedroom, undresses slowly, tenderly, like a mother putting her child to bed. She cares for her drunken body, washes her wrinkled face, long fingers careful to avoid her eyes. Goes to sleep early in an empty bed, having pushed away every other person who might have warmed it. </p><p>...</p><p>Parties are where Villanelle thrives. They have two things she enjoys: attention and people who will give it to her. All she has to do is walk through the room in whatever fabulous outfit she has picked out and there will be stares. The more she feels their eyes scraping across every inch of her body, the more powerful she becomes. With a calculated movements and a graceful saunter, she is an enchantress, Circe on her island, ready to turn everyone into pigs then fuck her harem of sea nymphs. What a life that woman led. Did Circe ever fight with her nymphs? Or even exist in a strange purgatorial limbo where neither party can admit they have no idea what’s going on?</p><p>No, Circe was more mature than that, more <em> refined. </em>She wouldn’t walk on eggshells around anyone, much less one of her humble nymph servants. </p><p>Regardless, the party is going well. A quartet of a pianist, bassist, drummer, and guitarist play a soft Latin tune on a small but classy stage. Around it are booths and lounge areas, filled with patrons buzzing in pleasant chatter. As soon as they entered, various businesspersons dressed in suits and ball gowns swarmed Julio, trying to engage him in conversation. He politely waved them off while she stood next to him, tall and domineering, observing the guests in silence. </p><p>Parties are also the best time to people-watch, and people-watching is a necessary engagement if one aspires to be an excellent assassin (such as herself). She takes bits and pieces from all of her subjects, weaving them into her personas, learning how to relax her prey and striking when they least expect it. The French perfume prodigy, Julie, whose name she stole for her current identity as well, came from an anxiety-ridden, mousy waitress she encountered at a café in Cannes who got so startled when Villanelle asked for her number that she nearly spilled a steaming hot latté all over her lap. When they laid in bed later at her rented apartment, sprawled on the white sheets and lazy in the afternoon sun, the waitress told her about her plans to move to Los Angeles to make it as an actress. Her eyes lit up brightly as she rambled on about joining the ranks of Julie Delpy and Léa Seydoux. Villanelle had wished her luck but knew the girl didn’t have a shot. She had a terrible snaggletooth, but the personality served well for her assassin antics, and she appreciated it. It was one of her favorites. </p><p>“Julie,” Julio says, pulling her from her thoughts. His voice is tight, a stark contrast to his typical relaxed demeanor. He’s reaching across the table of their booth and placing a tanned hand on top of hers. “I’d like you to meet someone. This is—“ </p><p>“Claudia.” A middle-aged, stocky Afro-Cuban woman dressed in a beautiful olive tank top tucked into stylish trousers, steps out from behind him. Her salt and pepper hair is cropped close to her scalp in a military style crew cut, and her left arm is a stump, lost, she assumes, in an injury long ago. Claudia sticks out her muscled right arm to shake. </p><p>She smiles, not missing a beat, and takes her hand firmly. “Julie Michaels,” she says, adding a French lilt to her accent. She’s feeling nostalgic tonight. “Nice to meet you.” </p><p>Claudia meets her gaze, dark eyes flicking back and forth, trying to get a read on her, as she shakes back. “Nice to meet you,” she also responds. </p><p>Julio is watching them, almost nervous but imperceptibly so. Shaky fingers tug at his unbuttoned collar, and a lone bead of sweat rolls down his forehead. This must be his boss, she thinks, or at least someone very important to his crime-doing shenanigans. Villanelle makes a mental note to keep an eye on her. She’s piqued her interest. </p><p>“Filling in for, what’s his face? <em>Señor Cejas Grandes.</em>” Despite her question, Claudia looks disinterested. She pulls a cigar from her back pocket, wordlessly motioning to Julio, who flips out his lighter as she puffs smoke. </p><p>Villanelle nods. “Yes.” </p><p>“Good for you,” she remarks, smoking some more. “You smoke?”</p><p>She shakes her head. “I do not.” </p><p>“You shouldn’t,” says Claudia, pointing at her with the cigar. “It’s bad for you.” She lifts her stump arm up like a warning. Julio winces away from the action, careful not to catch her attention. </p><p>“Noted,” she replies coolly. </p><p>Claudia regards her with squinted eyes, surveying her with an intensity she can’t quite pinpoint. She feels like a prized pig at the county fair, being evaluated for how fat she’s gotten. “Alright. Good to see you, old friend,” she says finally, putting her cigar out on the ashtray in front of them. She gives Julio a big clap on the back, and he tenses, knuckles turning white on the arms of the leather lounge chair. “I’ll see you two soon.” And with that, she’s gone, returning to a group of men talking at a large table. They cheer as she reenters the circle with an enormous grin, immediately knocking back a tequila shot one of the men shoved into her single hand. </p><p>Julio sighs in relief, slumping into his seat. “Phew.” </p><p>Villanelle observes him carefully. “Boss?” she asks, already knowing the answer. </p><p>“<em> Sì </em>,” he shifts, wiping his forehead. “Tensions are high lately amongst the executives.” </p><p>Knowing the feeling, she snorts. “Management sucks.”</p><p>“Indeed.” He raises his glass to her, and she does the same with her water. They clink the two glasses together humorously, and she is filled with a warmth she has been missing for awhile. For the past few days, weeks, even months, the heat in her stomach has been violent and furious, burning deep holes in her gut— she’s rampaged through several bottles of Pepcid AC to no avail. This warmth is different, enveloping her like her father’s hug on the day they went to the creek. Like the wave earlier that afternoon, when it took her screams from her body and kept them as its own. </p><p>She thinks she and Julio are going to be friends. </p><p>...</p><p>Eve wakes up when the light comes in. Neither of them had remembered to close the blackout curtains last night. Villanelle dozes beside her, sprawled out in the bed. Eve is huddled on the edge of the mattress, clutching at a sparse section of comforter. She releases it, gets up quietly, stretches. Puts on a tank top and khaki shorts, ties her hair up in a bun, brushes her teeth. In ten minutes, Eve is out the door, Villanelle still sleeping soundly and oblivious to Eve’s plan.</p><p>Number one priority: finding Beatriz. In the hotel lobby, Eve serves herself a cup of complimentary coffee, black and steaming. As she nurses the beverage in an armchair, she reviews what she knows, which, unfortunately, is very little. Beatriz is a bingo champion, at the minimum. She’s an Alvarez, and a (former?) guest at the hotel. Maybe Julio had put her up in a nice room. Eve deduces that she might be a familiar face around the resort, and tries to distill a description from the face in the article photograph: short, white-haired, warm brown skin tone. Eve glances around. There are at least four women in sight that fit that sketch. Shit. She tries to estimate how many guests might be at the resort at any given time: one thousand, two thousand? Eve is rapidly realizing she has very little idea how hotels work. </p><p>Suddenly, the huge bulletin catches her eye. It’s filled with colorful posters and alluring images of white-sand beaches, competing for the average tourist’s dollar with add-on activity sign ups. Eve had always brushed past it, not looking to attract attention or get to know anyone around the resort. They were supposed to be flying under the radar, and what definition of flying under the radar included sunset horseback rides, or parasailing? She takes special notice of the board now, though, for Eve has caught a glimpse of a lead sent from God:</p><p>
  <em> Bingo Semifinals Competition Tonight at 5! Championship Will Take Place Tuesday </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Newcomers Must Obtain Invitation To Participate </em>
</p><p>Eve hustles to the check-in counter. “Excuse me,” She demands in her practiced, thick Southern accent. “How might one obtain an invitation to the bingo contest?”</p><p>The attendant looks preemptively tired. “You need a bingo regular to vouch for you, ma’am, since these are the semifinals.”</p><p>“Well how do you expect me to know a regular?” Eve snaps, drumming her fingers on the counter impatiently. </p><p>“We do not, ma’am.” The attendant blinks stubbornly, evidently practiced in her customer-bullshit-dealing skills. Eve harumphs. </p><p>“Well,” She sneers, prepared to give being a dick one last try, “I just think that’s awfully exclusive of you.” The attendant glares, gesturing behind her to a sign. <em> El Atardecer: An Exclusive Resort </em>.</p><p>“Sorry.”</p><p>Eve relents and leaves the poor clerk alone, but her mind spins as she jumps from plan to plan. One way or another, she needed to find Beatriz by this evening. If Eve could get a seat at the semifinals and manage to befriend the older Alvarez, she might be able to dig up the backstory on Julio that she so desperately needed to put all the pieces of Jamie’s cryptic email together. She had no tech whiz, no brilliant aides, and not even a bulletin board to puzzle out the mess, but she <em> did </em>have 9 hours and a cup of coffee. </p><p>Eve does her best to utilize the powerful resource that is old lady gossip by asking any woman that appeared both Cuban and over the age of sixty if they had heard of a woman named Beatriz Alvarez. After a couple false starts that included being directed to a beachfront souvenir shop run by a <em> different </em>Beatriz, Eve finally finds herself at the door of a little restaurant just opening up for the day.</p><p>Eve has never been inside this particular bistro before. Villanelle had always turned her nose up at it, citing “bad corporate vibes” as an excuse not to dine there. Admittedly, the building’s facade was bland, but when Eve swings open the door, she is greeted with a heavenly aroma. The rich scents of tomatoes, garlic, cumin, cilantro and red meat fill her lungs, warm and welcoming as the restaurant prepares for the day. She remembers her hours in the restaurant in New Malden and finds herself missing the simple menial work. In fact, Eve is so caught up in her recollection that she barely hears the greeting of the woman behind the counter.</p><p>“Hm?” Eve starts, absentminded.</p><p>“I said, <em> buenos dias, </em>” The woman repeats loudly. She is stout, with terracotta skin and white hair. </p><p><em> Beatriz </em>. </p><p>“Oh. Yes. <em> Buenos dias, </em>” Eve says hurriedly, rushing to the counter. “Ma’am, are you—are you busy right now?” The woman stares at her, deadpan, before gesturing around the entirely empty restaurant. </p><p>“Take your time,” Beatriz says dryly, crossing her arms enclothed in the resort uniform. </p><p>Realizing that at this point she should probably order something, Eve settles on the <em> ropa vieja, </em> a dish of braised flank steak with vegetables and rice. Despite having been handed her change and receipt, though, something in Eve’s legs won’t let her sit down.</p><p>“May I...help you?” The old Cuban woman says bemusedly, rocking back on her heels. </p><p>“Would you invite me to bingo tonight?” Eve blurts out unabashed.</p><p>“Aren’t I a little old for you?” She winks, then adds more genuinely: “Isn’t <em> bingo </em>a little old for you?” Eve shrugs. </p><p>“I want to learn from a master,” Eve says. “I saw your name in the hotel newsletter.”</p><p>“You should at least buy me lunch first.”</p><p>“Isn’t this your restaurant?”</p><p>“Buy me lunch.”</p><p>...</p><p>“And then I told him—it didn’t matter how many chairs you put in the place, if you didn’t open the doors!” Beatriz chortles, gasping for breath over her laughter. Eve wipes her eyes, still chuckling. </p><p>“Oh, man, you’ve certainly lived a life,” Eve says, taking a sip of her pineapple soda. Beatriz nods, sighing. </p><p>“Ah, I like to keep things alive,” She says. “That’s why I opened this restaurant. Share my food, feed people. <em> Mi sobrino </em>, he owns the hotel, he help me get started here,” She says, glancing around her restaurant appreciatively. Eve straightens up at the indirect mention of Julio.</p><p>“Wow, this entire hotel?” Eve asks, feigning dazzlement. </p><p>“<em> Sí </em> . It is a bit of a side hustle for him,” She sniffs disdainfully. “So he gets his labor in-house. Lots of family working around here. <em> Los Alvarez, </em>we are a big group.” Eve wants to know more, but recognizes that undue interest Julio would be suspicious at this point. </p><p>“Right, I think I’ve seen a bunch of you around, yeah,” Eve agrees, letting the conversation move on. </p><p>“So, Angela. I must ask. What brings you to Cuba?” She leans back slightly, dark eyes twinkling with interest. Eve begins to tell the story they concocted. </p><p>“I’m on a honeymoon with my wife. I’d been out of work for many months because of an injury, and, well, we figured if one of us was going to be off, we might as well make the most of it. Get married, come to Cuba, you know? I’ve always been interested in the country, and we’re trying to figure out if we’d like to stay here,” Eve shrugs, nonchalant. Beatriz narrows her eyes, quiet for a second. </p><p>“Been here long?”</p><p>“About three and a half weeks. I was getting bored.”</p><p>“Hence the bingo,” Beatriz nods knowingly, taking a bite of her <em> pollo asado </em>. </p><p>“Hence the bingo.” </p><p>“I suppose I could write you an invitation. It would be fun to have some new blood, you know? Younger folks. Not just old <em> viejas </em>like me.” </p><p>“I’d like that,” Eve smiles, swirling her drink.</p><p>“None of these people—they are not good for talking with,” She says, gesturing lightly. “Boring. Same bingo cards every time, yeah?” Eve nods in assent, as though she is familiar with the intricacies of bingo contest social strata. “And they don’t like me. I win too much, they think I cheat. To that I say: <em> ¡me resbala! </em>I do not need friends to win.” Beatriz, far from looking dejected in this moment, appears hardened. Eve sees that same cunning gleam in her expression that she has long recognized in Julio. Something else that must run in the family. Suddenly, she feels a pang, almost like kinship, towards this woman, some familiarity in her that she recognizes within herself. Beatriz sighs, and at the same time, Eve senses that the productivity of this conversation has passed its peak. She taps the table. </p><p>“So I’ll see you at bingo?”</p><p>“Don’t miss it.” </p><p>...</p><p>The days in Havana move differently than anywhere she’s ever stayed. The rest of the event with Julio had gone smoothly. He visibly relaxed once Claudia made a grand exit, no less than ten people following her out. She even had waved goodbye, throwing a wink in Villanelle’s direction as she did so. Villanelle lifted her head in acknowledgement but didn’t wave back. She was not <em> intimidated </em> by Claudia, just <em> suspicious </em> , and she doesn’t wave or wink at people she’s suspicious of. Unless she’s trying to sleep with them. And she <em> would </em> be trying to sleep with Claudia, if she <em> wasn’t </em> trying to prove to Eve whatever she’s trying to prove to her these days. Eve is so complicated, and she can barely keep up. </p><p>Julio, on the other hand, she found easy to keep up with. They spent the rest of their time mingling and chatting and found out they have more in common than they thought. He shares a similar appreciation for the finer things in life, and they had discussed their favorite designers (Julio is partial to Yves Saint-Laurent) until the other guests fizzled out, leaving only them and the band members behind. </p><p>So, the next morning, when he sent her a text on her phone—that he never asked her to return—containing a picture of a suit he was interested in purchasing, she was ecstatic to share her thoughts. It sparked another conversation about a Prada piece in which she was particularly interested and spirals into a discussion over early 2000s fashion trends and how tragic they were (although she does love a good low rise jean—one of her admitted character flaws). Before she knew it, it was already four and time for her shift at the bar. Julio sent her a selfie of him enjoying his special mojito at the counter. They talked the whole time, save for the occasional rush of the Wednesday evening alcoholics. </p><p>As Eve snored softly beside her that night, she realized she’s never really had a friend. At least, she doesn’t think the general populace would consider the thing she and Eve are doing even remotely close to friendship. Most of the people she would call a “friend” were ones she was using as a means to an end. Like Nadia. Or Agniya. Or that old lady in Paris— no, she actually liked her. </p><p>Hm, now that she really was contemplating it, she didn’t have a whole lot of those either. Having someone to talk about all the things one enjoys with and having them actually care, to boot (without romantic feelings sabotaging it all) is kind of fantastic, and she wonders why she’s avoided it for so long. In her old life, she had everything she wanted. Friends became useless play things. Expendable. These days, she finds herself hungry for connection in any way she can get it.  Perhaps Dasha was right. She’s getting soft. </p><p>A couple of days later, she’s at the bar, polishing the last of the pint glasses, about to read Julio’s latest message, when he appears in front of her, clad in a summery ensemble pulled out of a fashion magazine, straw Panama hat placed somewhat ironically on his head. </p><p>“<em> Hòla </em>!” He exclaims with a bright smile. </p><p>“The usual?” She asks, already reaching for the mojito glass. </p><p>Julio waves his hand, stopping her. “No, actually I’m here for something else.” </p><p>“Oh?” She raises an eyebrow. </p><p>His bright smile shifts into a devilish grin. “How would you feel about playing a round of golf then having some drinks on my yacht?”</p><p>Frowning, she turns in the direction of the two patrons seated at the end of the bar, enjoying their tropical frozen beverages. “Unfortunately, I have customers to attend to.”</p><p>She freezes as Julio touches her arm that leans on the counter. “<em> Señora </em>, you forget, I own this bar. Grab your things. We’re going.”</p><p>Villanelle is not one to question such a request, placing her rag under the counter and stepping out from behind it. “I must change,” she states, ashamed of her black on black bartender uniform. </p><p>Waving her off again, Julio starts heading in the direction of the main shopping strip where she and Eve had shared their kiss many nights ago. “Trust me,” he shouts without turning his head. “We’ll find you something.” </p><p>...</p><p>“You were good at bingo last night,” Beatriz grins, sipping on a rum and coke. </p><p>Eve and Beatriz are seated at Doce Noches, Villanelle’s bar. Conveniently, she isn’t there. Fuck knows what she’s been up to lately—whenever Eve tries to talk to her, she is either unusually distant or entirely absorbed in her cell phone. Eve has always found the “braindead Millennials and their screen addictions” rhetoric to be distasteful, but she’d be lying if she said that a snotty remark on the subject isn’t brewing just beneath the surface whenever she’s around Villanelle now. Not that that was often, of course. Somehow, they’ve been managing to steer very clear of each other, arriving back at the hotel room coincidentally at the same time the other woman was “just leaving”. They’ve been polite. Distant. Eve thinks she’s the only one that notices, though. Villanelle is too absorbed in her new friendship with Julio to pay any mind to her fake wife. Whatever. Eve has Beatriz now. It started as a ploy to get dirt on Julio, but at this point, it’s blossomed into a genuine friendship. It soothes some quiet ache in Eve she didn’t even know was there.</p><p>She misses having friends. She didn’t think she would; Eve had always believed herself to be naturally independent. But after nearly a month of being Angela Michaels, she misses being a real person. She misses Bill, Elena, Kenny. Niko. Dinners cooked in a big kitchen and served with a bottle of cheap wine. She may not get that with this old Cuban woman, but she gets something close enough.</p><p>“I do my best,” Eve replies after a long pause, knocking back a shot of tequila and staring at nothing. Beatriz thumps her arm lightly.</p><p>“We beat Dolores and Sheila pretty good, no?” Beatriz prods.</p><p>“Yeah, yeah. On the four corners round especially.” Eve musters a smile.</p><p>“Ay. What is up with you, my friend? You have been very quiet tonight, hm? We should be celebrating. Moving on to bingo championships tomorrow!” Beatriz raises her glass, clinking it gently against the stationary one in Eve’s hand. </p><p>“Bea...” Eve meets her eyes, then shakes her head. “Trouble in paradise, I guess.” Beatriz whistles lowly, furrowing her brow.</p><p>“Not the wife already, <em> colega </em>? It is your honeymoon!” Eve looks helpless, and Bea softens. “I did notice you are not home so often.” </p><p>“Julie can be very hard to talk to,” Eve admits, waving the bartender over for another drink. Bea raises her eyebrows, silently prompting the curly-haired woman to continue. Eve decides, in an instant, that perhaps a little honesty might be just what she needs. “She hurt one of my friends before we met. A bar fight. He never really recovered. And she’s more or less the reason I divorced my husband.” If Beatriz is shocked by these admissions, she doesn’t show it. </p><p>“But, you know, I married her, right? Julie and Angela. Says so on the wedding license,” Eve adds hastily.</p><p> “I...” Eve stumbles, pauses, takes a drink. At this point she’s polished off more shots than she cares to admit and all the words she wants to use are swimming in front of her, slipping from her grasp.  “I feel so much for her. More than she knows, and I don’t even know how to tell her. I don’t even know what it is. But I also haven’t quite forgiven her, either. Can you have that? Can you be married to someone without forgiving them?”</p><p>Beatriz looks at Eve askance. “To be clear, Angela, you are talking about the Julie that <em> you </em> married, yes?” She asks, incredulous.</p><p>“It was rushed. A tax thing,” Eve blurts out, biting her lip.</p><p>“Still. You are married to this woman, no?”</p><p>“Yeah, I am,” Eve says, lying through her teeth.</p><p>“Then you have to find a way to forgive her.” </p><p>“But how?” Eve whines, kneading her hands in frustration. </p><p>“We find ways to forgive the ones we love, no?” Beatriz burps loudly, finishing off her rum and coke. “That Capitalist bitch, uh. Ayn Rand. Shitty author but she has a good quote about love” —Eve winces— “It is exception-making, yes? Love is exception-making. She is your wife. Make an exception.” Bea shrugs.</p><p>“Easier said than done,” Eve says dryly. </p><p>“Yes, but we all must do it. Me? I make exceptions for my shitty nephew. He is so lazy, <em> no dispara un chícharo </em>. Gets his family to run his hotel for him and” —she hiccups— “fucks around in Havana, killing gang members by accident. Getting himself into trouble.” Beatriz is so intoxicated at this point that she doesn’t even seem to realize the magnitude of what she has just revealed to Eve, who is hastily trying to pull herself out of her drunken fog to absorb that. </p><p>“Gang members?” Eve startles, gears beginning to turn in her mind.</p><p>“He does not tell me this. I find out,” Beatriz grins, tapping her temple. “I am worried for him, though. He is getting a bit desperate. I keep my nose out of it, I don’t interfere. He has to make himself worth it to save his skin. Not my problem, but I love him anyway, yeah?” She says, gesturing with her glass. “I don’t like, uh, <em> como se dice </em> , organized crime in my family. But love, it is exception-making.” She hiccups. “Although, it seems we are making slightly different exceptions,” she laughs heartily, then downs one of Eve’s tequila shots. Briefly, Eve thinks: <em> If only she knew </em>. </p><p>“Your nephew...is he safe?” Eve prods gently, desperate to eke out <em> any </em>more information while they’re on the subject. </p><p>“Ah, when I ask him now, he says he has a plan. A trade. Life for a life.” Suddenly, Beatriz’s eyes cloud and her face darkens with concern. “Angela, you will tell no one this, yes? I tell you because we are good friends. Good new friends. I don’t have many people to talk to. My nephew is a good boy. I don’t want him getting into more trouble.” </p><p>“Of course,” Eve soothes, but she’s hardly listening to herself. A life for a life. Trouble with a gang. <em> Doce Noches </em>. Jamie’s email. </p><p>The Twelve is obviously looking for Villanelle. It stands to reason they would have contacts in Cuba. Julio, with his cartel involvement, surely would have been involved with the Twelve—Eve knew he always enjoyed the cachet of politics while he had worked within the Cuban government, which likely translated to his less savory pursuits as well. Then he got himself into trouble with the Twelve and needed a saving grace. What could possibly be more valuable to them than the wanted assassin Eve had gifted right into his lap?</p><p>“I will see you tomorrow, Beatriz,” Eve says, but doesn’t believe herself. They need to get out. As soon as they can. When she waves goodbye to the old woman, who continues drinking rather sadly, it is with the eyes of someone who is never planning on coming back</p><p>…</p><p>They have a fun time, traversing the strip of boutiques like kids in a candy store. She settles on some gray striped trousers and a stylish J. Crew polo. The outlandish golfing outfit has already been done. This time, she keeps it simple and precise, which is how she likes to handle these interactions with Julio. She is straightforward and never finds herself elaborating on anything. It’s the most ideal relationship she’s ever had. Everything, it seems, is on her terms, and that’s just awesome. </p><p>They’re on hole 6 when Julio pipes up, wearing a deliciously pink outfit of his own. “How about the yacht?” He asks in a sultry voice. “I’m feeling a mojito. It’s too hot.”</p><p>And it is particularly sweltering, she thinks, wiping the beads of sweat from her brow. The sun is beginning to set above them, orange and yellow rays glinting off the bright green grass of the golf course. It’s a gorgeous sight, and she lingers on it before answering, “Sure.” </p><p>Tajo picks them up outside the clubhouse in the black SUV Villanelle had driven a few days ago. Despite them  heat, he’s wearing a full black suit that fits nicely on his large frame. She can tell Julio thinks so also because as he settles in the passenger seat, he puts his hand on the other man’s thigh. Tajo shifts slightly, but there’s no indication he’s uncomfortable. He mutters something in soft Spanish that she can’t quite make out. Julio removes his hand almost immediately, hurt washing over his visage, a look she knows all too well. </p><p>“I’m dropping you off here,” Tajo says when he makes the turn into the parking lot of the private docks. </p><p>Julio looks up from his phone in confusion. “I thought you were coming with us, <em> querido </em>.” </p><p>She relaxes in her seat, listening closer, excited to be watching a lover’s quarrel that is not her own. </p><p>“No. I have to be elsewhere.” He catches Villanelle’s eye in the rearview mirror over his sunglasses, a hardened glare. She’s glad he isn’t coming. He seems like a buzzkill. </p><p>His vague statement is said with such finality, Julio can barely express his disappointment. Hanging his head, he opens the car door and steps out. </p><p>“Have fun,” Tajo says to her as she does the same, sunglasses now pushed up his nose, glare still piercing through the darkened shades. </p><p>She pays no mind. It’s not her business who Julio sleeps with, as long as she doesn’t have to spend time with him. “Thanks,” she says, then slams the door. </p><p>The car wheels loudly screech against the asphalt as Tajo peels out of the parking lot. Julio silently watches him leave, and she doesn’t say anything either, just offers an empathetic presence. She doesn’t really know how to handle the whole “consoling friend” thing yet. It’s all very new to her. Biting the inside of his cheek, he speaks after a few seconds. “Shall we?” He motions to what is definitely the largest yacht amongst a collection of gigantic yachts. </p><p>She only nods, absorbed in admiring the beauty of the ships. He starts walking, and she follows close behind. </p><p>…</p><p>They’re about four mojitos deep when Villanelle realizes she’s made a mistake. </p><p>She also realizes she really has to pee, and it is when she has to stand up and walk to one of the yacht’s six bathrooms from the hot tub that the mistake she has made becomes abundantly clear. </p><p>First of all, hot tub stairs should not be so small. Most of those who are in hot tubs are drunk, and it’s definitely a safety hazard. She very narrowly stops herself from face planting onto the deck, and Julio laughs so hard tears stream from his eyes. </p><p>Second of all, there should not be this many doors on a yacht. Most of those on yachts are drunk and experiencing visual irregularities. She finds it difficult to determine if there are six or twelve doors, and her bladder feels like it is being squished under the foot of a three-ton elephant. Luckily, she picks a door that is either four or eight ones away from the deck and plops onto the seat, letting out a large gasp of relief. </p><p>“Find it okay?” Julio asks as she stumbles back into the water. </p><p>“Too many doors,” she mumbles, slumping so that only her head is above the jets. </p><p>He chuckles, sipping his drink from a pink swirly straw. Swirly whirly straw. </p><p>Very berry swirly whirly surprise. <em> Eve </em>, she remembers fondly, but the clench in her chest says otherwise. </p><p>“Eve?” Julio questions and raises an eyebrow. Woops. She must have said it out loud. </p><p>“Eve,” she sighs, too drunk to change the subject. “She’s exhausting. Always has lots of <em> things </em>going on up there.” She gestures wildly around her head for emphasis. </p><p>“Ah,” Julio hums. “I know the type.” His light-colored eyes darken. “It’s hard to love someone in this life. Or I guess,” he laughs, “to love someone even at all.” </p><p>Lifting her drink in agreement, she says, “Cheers.” They clink the glasses together, and she takes the last sip, enjoying the bitterness of the citrus rolling down her throat. They sit wordlessly, like they do, appreciating the company. </p><p>“Do you ever—“ Julio speaks up nervously, “Do you ever wonder if it is pointless?”</p><p>“Sometimes,” she says, uncomfortable but coherent. “But then, I don’t think I’d have anything else to do if she wasn't here. And that’s boring. I used to be so bored. Then, she appeared, and I wasn’t anymore. I haven’t been.” It’s an honest answer despite her inebriated state. </p><p>Julio thinks about this for a beat. “Does she love you back?” </p><p>“Does he?” </p><p>He sighs, staring blankly ahead. “No. No, he doesn’t.” With the admission, he clenches his fist, knuckles turning white. </p><p>She raises her glass again. He gives her a sympathetic nod. </p><p>“I’m so…” Searching for the word, he runs a hand through his hair. “Confused. He won’t talk to me. He barely even looks at me anymore. If he does, it’s full of hatred, when it didn’t used to be like that. He used to stay over, hold me in his arms, now I’m lucky if he walks me to my door. He just doesn’t. Care.”</p><p>“Yeah.” She sighs back. “I understand.” </p><p>“But he also will hold my hand sometimes or kiss my cheek. And I don’t know what he wants. I’ll give it. I just don’t know.”</p><p>She feels bad for him, being trapped in a relationship just because you love the other person. Maybe he should leave Tajo. Is it worth it? Is it pointless? Trapped in an endless sea of confusion and heartache and mistrust and— wait. This is sounding awfully familiar, and she is getting angry. </p><p>”With the money I have I could have anyone I wanted. But instead here I am. Tied to another person like—“</p><p>“A dog.” She finishes, frustration combined with alcohol boiling on her cheeks, flushing them bright pink. In this moment, she decides she’s sick of it. Yes, she said her life is less boring now, but she had everything she wanted back then! She could live with a little boredom. It’s humbling, honestly. Eve doesn’t own her. No one does. She’s a lone wolf. <em> A </em> -fucking- <em> wooooo </em>. </p><p>“Yes,” Julio says happily. “Exactly.” He leans over to check his phone, which has just lit up. Villanelle watches him frown as he reads the message, eyes scanning back and forth on the bright screen. </p><p>“Bad news?” She asks jokingly. </p><p>He rolls his shoulders, standing up in the hot tub and twisting the knob for the jets off. “Not exactly, but we should get you home. I’ll call you a cab.”</p><p>“Not your <em> booooyfriend?” </em>She croons and hates how drunk she sounds. </p><p>Julio’s frown becomes a grim straight line. “No. Not him. Come, you’re too drunk. We’ll get you to Eve.”</p><p>“No, I’m mad at Eve,” she argues, failing to pull her arm away from Julio. </p><p>“Fine. I have some business, okay? I need you to leave. Can I call you a cab now?”</p><p>She finally succeeds in yanking her arm from his grasp, pouting as she dusts off her shoulder. “You didn’t have to be rude about it.”</p><p>Julio chuckles softly. “Let’s go.” He puts a hand on the small of her back and leads her out of the hot tub. </p><p>It is good that she’s going home, even if against her will. She has a bone to pick with Eve, and she will no longer be silenced. Her opinions matter. Her voice matters. She has value. </p><p>“Yes, you do,” Julio agrees. “And yes,” he adds. “You said that out loud.”</p><p><em> Fuck, </em> she thinks. <em> I need coffee. </em></p><p>Julio is way ahead of her and shoves a warm styrofoam cup in front of her. </p><p>“You are a god.” </p><p>He rubs her back lovingly. “No, I’m not,” he says, and it’s almost apologetic. His eyes display a sadness she had never seen him wear. They flick to the right, a blur speeding into their peripheral. “Your cab is here. Try to sober up, yeah?”</p><p>She realizes they are now in the parking lot where Tajo had dropped them earlier. A yellow cab with an impatient driver sits in front of them.  He angrily glares at them through the open window. “<em> She better not throw up!” </em>He shouts in Spanish. </p><p><em> “She won’t,” </em> Julio reassures him. “ <em> Right </em>?” He asks in a hushed whisper. </p><p>Villanelle shakes her head no. She doesn’t feel nauseous, just angry. </p><p>Julio opens the door for her and shoves her inside. “I’ll see you later, Julie.” </p><p>“See you,” she mumbles as the cabbie drives away. Chucking broken asphalt up with the wheels, they speed through a dusty black cloud and onto the brightly lit streets of Havana. </p><p>… </p><p>Her eyes are heavy, the images of Silvestro and André passionately embracing fading as darkness consumes her vision. She was already tired when she began watching, so her interpretation of the plot may be iffy, but she is under the impression André may have saved Silvestro from a raving horde of robot monkeys? </p><p>No, that’s definitely what is happening. The poorly animated monkeys are jumping from the ground below them. The actors are not hot enough to distract from the disaster of a plot. Although, she will admit, she can’t stop watching. Anything to keep her mind off of the cruel inevitability: that she and Villanelle need to leave Cuba, quietly and ASAP. </p><p>“Good for them,” she mutters, carelessly dropping the remote to the floor. She wonders if they have any wine. And where the <em> fuck </em>Villanelle is. Eve doesn’t have a phone, so she can’t text her. She’s forced to sit and wait in a dark hotel room, hoping that tonight isn’t the night she’s kidnapped by a bunch of seedy gang members. She’s mad at Villanelle, yeah. But that would still suck.</p><p>Before she can decide whether she wants to crack into the Cabernet she had purchased earlier that day, the door to their suite flies open, revealing the lumbering form of La Villanelle, the infamous, effortlessly talented international assassin. </p><p>“Hi,” she says plainly, instead of an explanation. “Didn’t think <em> you’d </em> be home.” </p><p>“What?” Eve startles, suddenly much more awake than a second ago. She observes Villanelle in better light, clad in a golfing outfit pulled straight from some dumb fashion magazine, one that she probably throw away before lamenting about adult things like her credit card bill.</p><p>“I said,” Villanelle slurs, “I didn’t think <em> youuuuuu’d </em> be home.”</p><p>“Are you drunk?” Eve asks, incredulous. </p><p>“No,” Villanelle says, probably just to be annoying. She’s standing in the entryway, semi-slumped, her whole outfit reeking of liquor. </p><p>“You’re drunk,” she states, disappointed and also incredibly irritated. </p><p>Villanelle takes the moment of silence following her statement to stroll into their kitchenette and drape herself over the counter. “And?” </p><p>“Where have you been?” Eve demands, crossing her arms.</p><p>“Why do you care? You’re never home,” Villanelle scoffs, kicking off her shoes. </p><p>“What’s that supposed to mean?” She frowns.</p><p>“You’re never here when I get back anymore,” Villanelle shrugs.</p><p>“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was supposed to be some sort of 1950s housewife for you—” </p><p>“It would explain the way you dress. Maybe you could drop the turtlenecks,” she remarks cooly.</p><p>“Excuse me?” Eve sputters, stepping closer to Villanelle. </p><p>Villanelle sighs. “Do you have something you’d like to get off of your chest, <em> sweetie </em>?”</p><p>“Where the fuck have you been?”</p><p>“If you must know, I was with Julio,” Villanelle hiccups, reaching for the Cabernet that Eve was contemplating opening. “We are friends now. He is good to me, you know? Listens. Lets me show him my photographs on VSCO.”</p><p>“You have to stop seeing him, Villanelle,” Eve starts.</p><p>“Oh, my bad, I forgot that you’re my mother. Although I guess that means no more kissing, I’m sorry—” </p><p>Suddenly, Eve raises her hand as though to slap Villanelle. She only stops herself at the last second and almost looks sorry she did so.</p><p>“Oooh,” Villanelle mumbles, having barely flinched. “That stung a bit, huh?” Eve says nothing, mouth slightly parted and choked with all the words she doesn’t know how to spit out. “What, are you jealous?”</p><p>“You fucking wish,” she snarls then remembers why they started arguing in the first place. Julio. Villanelle is in danger. “Please, Villanelle, just listen to me, for like one fucking second. I’ve been seeing this woman named Beatriz. She’s Julio’s—”</p><p>“<em> Beatriz </em>,” Villanelle mocks with as much venom as possible. </p><p>“Jesus CHRIST, are you <em> five </em>?” Eve’s eyes nearly roll back in her head with anger. “Let me finish my goddamn sentence.”</p><p>“Oh, now you want to talk? We can talk now. I’m free. I’ve been free for three and a half weeks. I’ll be free for the rest of my fucking life as soon as I get away from—” Villanelle stops.</p><p>“What were you going to say?” Eve says quietly, but it’s a trap, and she does it on purpose. She continues on, knowing that this conversation is not going to end in an exchange of information, so she might as well dedicate herself to this fight that was inevitably going to happen anyway. “No, please, I’ll wait. The door is open. You can leave right now. Get away from what? Get away from who?”</p><p>“Don’t make me say it.”</p><p>“Figures.”</p><p>They exist in tense silence for several moments, meeting each other's gaze with spiteful intensity. Without breaking eye contact, Villanelle reaches for a corkscrew, popping open the bottle of wine. She raises the bottle to her lips and chugs down a swallow. </p><p>“That was mine,” Eve says pointedly. “I bought it.”</p><p>“No, Eve, actually <em> I </em> bought it. <em> You </em>don’t work.” Villanelle takes another spiteful swig. </p><p>“No, you’re right, I just sit here on my ass all day waiting for you to walk in the door after you finish fucking around in Havana with your gay best friend.”</p><p>“Love is <em> love </em>, Eve,” Villanelle says seriously, “He’s still my best friend.”</p><p>“He’s not your <em> FUCKING </em> best friend, you <em> idiot </em>. He’s—”</p><p>“He’s been more of a friend to me than you. What even are we, Eve? Are we friends?” Villanelle’s voice is disturbingly even. Eve flinches, unsure of how to answer.</p><p>“We’re colleagues,” Eve says coolly, having settled on the option most likely to piss Villanelle off. Because <em> fuck </em> her. She walks around acting like Eve owes her something for doing the bare minimum when she, quite literally, slaughtered her best friend <em> in front of her. </em> She, quite literally, suffocated her husband’s whatever the fuck <em> in front of him, </em>effectively ruining any chance of them reconciling their relationship. Not to mention, perhaps an even worse crime than either of those two things, she’s drinking Eve’s special wine (it cost over 10 dollars!) and smirking in the most infuriating way possible as she does it. </p><p>“Fuck. <em> You </em>.”</p><p>There’s a beat. They’re staring at each other, teeth slightly bared, like two feral dogs circling each other in the pit. They’re both bleeding. Neither seems ready to lunge for the other’s throat. Yet. </p><p>“I’m going to take a shower,” She says, in an effort to walk out of the ring herself before she has to be unwillingly dragged. </p><p>Villanelle blinks, taken out of her bloodthirst. “What?”</p><p>“A shower,” Eve shrugs, turning her back to her and heading into the master bedroom. “Haven’t you heard of ‘em?” </p><p>“You’re not taking a shower,” she says slowly, still registering what she said. Eve hears her following but doesn’t stop her course of action. </p><p>She grabs a towel from where it lays folded on the bed in an elephant shape, still perpetually impressed by the creativity of the hotel staff. It’s always a pleasure to come into the room and see a new animal towel sculpture seated upon the freshly changed sheets. </p><p>Villanelle stands in the doorway, defiant as ever. “You’re not taking a shower.” Shr repeats, stating it this time. </p><p>“I am,” responds Eve, opening the bathroom door. “As you can see.” She shuts it with a slam, happy to be in a room without the blonde assassin. </p><p>“I’m not done talking, Eve!” Villanelle shouts against the door. “I’m not <em> done.”  </em></p><p>Eve ignores the knob rattling (she had locked it immediately) and flips on the shower to let it get warm. She cannot wait to have the boiling water massage her back and all the tension in it. After the day she’s had, she needs it. </p><p>She’s about to take off her pants when—</p><p>
  <em> BOOMF.  </em>
</p><p>The door flies open, revealing a disheveled Villanelle, foot midair, breathing heavily. </p><p>“What the <em> FUCK!” </em>She screams, retreating into the shower that was already turned on. The water completely soaks her, and she’s dripping wet. Villanelle continues her approach, stalking closer and closer until she is at the sliding shower glass. </p><p>“I <em> said </em>,” she hisses over the rushing water, “I wasn’t done talking about it.”</p><p>“Get the fuck out of here,” Eve shouts back. She clutches a bar of soap menacingly. </p><p>Villanelle stands her ground. “No.” She opens the door, and Eve chucks the bar of soap as hard as she can, hitting Villanelle with a <em> thunk </em> on her left brow. She barely winces, instead her lip curls upward in a vicious snarl, and the metaphor of the dogs in the ring becomes much more real than Eve had intended. </p><p>At this point, Eve is pressed against the champagne tiled wall. Her hand reaches for another bar of soap, and she raises it once again. The water raining down on them makes her hair droop into her eyes, so she used the other to push it away, losing her sight of Villanelle for the briefest of seconds. </p><p>Then, her senses are consumed by <em> her </em>. </p><p>Villanelle’s left arm presses her own above her head, a threat, and her hand right gently rests on Eve’s hip. Their stomachs are almost touching as Villanelle leans in, letting a loose strand of hair brush against her cheek, slow, wet, and dangerous. In the same fashion, her lips graze at the dip of Eve’s collarbone. A tongue peeks out, dragging itself along the edge. </p><p>Despite the heat of the water pounding on them, she shudders. She swears she hears the asshole <em> chuckle </em> on her skin, before she presses her lips down, nipping with the most insatiable amount of pressure. A quick breath puffs out of her mouth, and she clenches her hand in Villanelle’s as she grips the fogging glass. </p><p>The other woman makes her way up Eve’s neck, stopping at various intervals to suck and bite. Reaching Eve’s pulsepoint, on which she dedicates considerable time, she moves her mouth to her earlobe, triggering another shudder. She stops when Eve squirms again, overwhelmed by the heat building in her stomach and desperate to relieve tension. </p><p>Breath sweet in her ear, she only says one sentence. </p><p>“<em> We are not colleagues. </em>”</p><p>And then, she’s gone. </p><p>… </p><p>Villanelle tries to stroll her way through the hotel entrance, but she thinks she ends up looking more like a lumbering bear than a casual person. </p><p>What does she care? Nothing matters anyway. </p><p>She doesn’t know where she’s headed after she steps off the premises of the resort  She <em> does </em>know that she would rather die than be there. It’s like that night in Amsterdam. She’ll go outside and find something. Or something will come to her.  </p><p>Luckily, she doesn’t have to get lost for long. Zooming out of the darkness, Julio’s black SUV screeches up to the curb. It’s almost off putting in the silence of the summer night. </p><p>The window rolls down, and Julio smiles at her while Tajo stares ahead, stone faced. Julio’s leg bounces anxiously, but his face is smiling. “Hello stranger. Need a lift?” Then, his eyebrows furrow, confused at her wet appearance, courtesy of the shower Eve had turned on. “Wait— why are you wet?”</p><p>“Long story  Don’t ask. Where are we headed?” Villanelle shrugs, playing along and too drunk to care about why or how they showed up so fast. </p><p>“Hop in,” Julio says, leg still bouncing. “We’ll go wherever you want to.”</p><p>Now, she likes the sound of <em> that.  </em></p><p>“You’ve won me over,” she jokes, reaching for the door handle. The lock unclicks immediately, and she gets inside. “Take me away.” Tajo puts the car in drive as an answer. The back of the SUV is completely dark, and she settles into her leather chair, not entirely sure if she is imagining a presence in the row behind her. </p><p>Julio looks back at her, and his eyes are wide and apologetic. His jovial nature replaced with something meek. “Villanelle, I—“</p><p>The hairs on her arm stand up. “How do you know that name.” </p><p>He doesn’t respond, merely continues staring with his sad, sad eyes. She goes to stand up, but the presence in back of her is quicker, and a cloth covers her mouth in an instant. The chemical scent fills her nostrils, and she chokes down a cough. Her vision fades until there is nothing but black.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>the girls are FIGHTING, things are getting INTERESTING, shit is HAPPENING, julio is GAY and so is CLAUDIA. please send us your claudia thoughts. before we named her, she was just written in our outline as “cuban milf” and you can bet your asses you’ll see more of her too. as long as this took to write, we had a lot of fun with it, and we hope you enjoyed it too. if you did, please leave a kudos and a comment, they really make it worth it for us and we send screenshots of our favorites to each other. follow on tumblr @toucanna and me @theatrelesbabe. ok that's all love u.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. note from the authors</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>are you bored yet is officially on hold</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Hey there guys, Anna and Isabella here. I know you guys were hoping for another chapter, and honestly, we were too. We’ve been trying to write this chapter for like a month now. Problem is, Anna’s started university again, so she’s got to focus on writing for her classes (she’s a screenwriting student!!) and various other adult things. On top of that, she’s working again, full time. We haven’t been able to meet and see each other either, which is usually a surefire way for us to bang out several thousand words. Isabella on the other hand is gearing up for college applications, so she’s been swamped with essay writing and test prep in addition to working 4 days a week and doing her summer homework. We wanted to bring you the next chapter as much as you wanted to read it, and trust us, we haven’t given up on it. However, we hold ourselves to a pretty high standard with AYBY, and we don’t want to give you guys anything we aren’t 100% excited about. We know how the story ends, we have it all plotted out, it’s just not the time for us to be focusing on fic. So, for now, AYBY is officially on hold. When we come back to it—and trust us, we will come back to it—we hope you guys will still want to read what we put out. So give us a few months, let us find a rhythm in our post-quarantine lives, and we’ll be back with the end of the story. Thanks for reading, friends. </p><p>xoxo, Isabella &amp; Anna</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>follow us on tumblr i'm anna, (@villanever) and i co-write this fic with isabella (@theatrelesbabe)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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